


Take Care of You

by norgbelulah



Series: Set Fire to This House [3]
Category: Justified
Genre: Alternate Universe, Captivity, Coming Out, Dating, Drugs, Dysfunctional Family, Guns, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Ice Cream, Intoxication, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Male Slash, Organized Crime, Rocket Launchers, Roofies, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-02
Updated: 2012-07-12
Packaged: 2017-11-02 22:56:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 85,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/norgbelulah/pseuds/norgbelulah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Raylan and Boyd kept a secret for five years.  Even in Harlan, secrets want to be told, and neither Boyd nor Raylan have any idea of the repercussions their private life will wreak on themselves and their home.  Bullets will fly, families will be torn apart, and Raylan and Boyd will remember that it's much easier to come into Harlan than it is to get out alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tread Softly Along These Halls

They’d both known it was only a matter of time.

They would mention it sometimes, just in passing, though always by accident, and in conversation about other things.

When Boyd talked about having Billy Ray from the night crew’s cousin out to the house to look at the rotted out beams in the living room ceiling, Raylan didn’t lift his eyes from the coffee pot as he said, “Probably best to do it when I’m not here.” 

Boyd thought about disagreeing for a moment, but then let it slide, realizing he didn’t want to grapple with the consequences of someone discovering, then passing along the well-kept secret of their situation in Raylan’s house. So he grunted his assent and kept on cooking the bacon.

He never did ask Billy Ray to talk to his cousin.

Another time, Raylan told him in between the sheets, just as Boyd was coming down from an excellent piece of head, “Rachel’s coming ‘round for a property seizure thing out in Corbin tomorrow,”.

“Yeah?” he asked, hardly thinking about it, as he straddled Raylan, sliding down to let him take his turn.

“Told her not to talk about you,” he replied quietly.

Boyd stopped for just a second, just a beat and a half of his still fast-pumping heart, and looked up at Raylan. There was a nervous knowledge there, one that Boyd shared. This couldn’t go on as long as they wanted it to.

But still, he just said, “Okay,” and swallowed Raylan’s cock.

Boyd had been the one who said he didn’t want to lie. It was true, he didn’t. But he had no qualms about obscuring the truth, or having others keep their mouths shut, or even lie for him. He was just as scared as Raylan about what would happen if people knew, though he pretended not to be for Raylan’s sake.

It was sort of funny, when he thought about it later, that when the secrets did all come out, there hadn’t really been a choice to make, for either of them.

 

Raylan had been in his job for about four months, going and coming back and forth between Harlan a lot more than either of them had suspected he would. It was a good thing, but hard. It wasn’t easy for Raylan to come back after so long, toting a badge and gun and coming down on old friends and acquaintances--people who knew his daddy or Helen, or Boyd, even--for just doing as they’d always done.

Art had dubbed him jokingly, the “hillbilly whisperer,” a name that Boyd had only found out about because of a rare trip up to Lexington. By the look on Raylan’s face, Boyd knew he couldn’t give any shit to him about it until after they left the office. 

While maybe only Art used that particular name for it, Raylan’s role as point person when it came to Harlan and its surrounding areas was no joke. It seemed like every law enforcement agency with half a problem down their way would call Raylan up for help. He knew how to talk to his people and it showed in the reports, traveling fast through the grapevine.

It had been slow going news that Raylan was back in town until he started working so much more in Harlan. But soon enough, people started asking Boyd, down in the grocer or up around Johnny’s when he stopped by, “Ain’t you still livin’ in the Givens’ house? You hear that boy Raylan is a cop of some kind?”

And Boyd would answer politely, yes, he was still living there. And yes, Raylan was a Deputy U.S. Marshal, just started working out of Lexington.

“Don’t he want his house back, him comin’ down here all the time?” they would ask.

Raylan stopped by sometimes and stayed the night, there was plenty of room in the house, Boyd would answer. And they always left it mostly at that. Sometimes one of the seedier men at the bar would ask what Boyd thought of a Givens with a badge and Boyd would smile, unable to help it, and say Raylan was his own man, it didn’t matter what he thought.

They kept to themselves, much like they had when Raylan was just coming home every few months. They never went out together, not necessarily because they were afraid of people seeing them and finding out, but mostly because they liked to stay in, they liked to talk and eat and fuck all weekend, before Raylan had to ride himself back up to Lexington.

It was a Tuesday morning that Raylan called Boyd while he was at work and left a message on his cell phone--a new thing the Marshal had insisted on--that he would be in Harlan that afternoon, stay the night then go back to the office on Wednesday. He asked Boyd if he wanted anything from the fancy food store near Raylan’s motel.

Boyd had been working third shift from the night before, and when he got off, he called Raylan back before crashing to bed, leaving a detailed half-conscious message about what kind of breakfast foods he was craving.

Boyd slept deep until noon-time, made himself a sandwich for lunch, and read in the kitchen with the radio on for the rest of the afternoon. 

He thought about working on the living room, feeling bad about leaving it bare for so long, waiting on a contractor he didn’t really intend to call.

He also couldn’t discount the fact that, with Raylan in and out all the time, his concentration on and in the house had narrowed mostly to wherever Raylan was and whatever Raylan wanted to do. Raylan never wanted to work on the house, and didn’t seem to care if it ever got fixed, so they spent most of their time in the kitchen, on the back porch, or in their bed.

It was later than he’d thought it would be when he finally heard Raylan’s car door slam and when he didn’t come in right away, Boyd closed his book and went to meet him.

“Baby, did you bring home that bacon I left you the message about?” Boyd called as he came towards the door, wondering what was taking Raylan so long to come up from the car. “I thought I’d cook us breakfast for d--”

He broke off as he stepped out onto the porch, and the screen door slammed behind him, causing Ava to wince from where she stood behind Boyd’s man.

The first time Boyd ever laid eyes on Ava, the woman who would marry his brother, she was maybe ten or so, singing in the same row as Bowman in the elementary school choir. The first time Boyd really looked at Ava, she’d just turned sixteen and she was turning everybody’s eye.

Half the men in the county had been half in love with Ava at one point or another and Boyd was no different. He’d gone about showing his jealous affection in a thoroughly immature and borderline-sadistic way for about three of the seven or eight years the the couple were married. Bowman still had no idea, and Ava, she wasn’t talking to him or about it at all. He’d never gotten a chance to apologize. 

He hadn’t seen her in a year at least, maybe more. They’d run into each other at the hardware store the last time, when he’d tried to reason with her and she’d told him if he touched or talked to her she would scream bloody murder.

That was years after Boyd had stopped coming around to Bowman’s, when every male member of his family had been asking him, “What is going through your head, son?” because he’d left his boys high and dry and moved into the Givens’ house. And even longer since the days he’d treated her with a degree of disrespect that entirely warranted such a reaction to his presence.

But now Raylan had brought her to him and he couldn’t protest because Raylan was Raylan and there was no way he would stand by and watch this happen to anyone.

Boyd took in the sight of Ava, looking small and sad next to his tall lawman, a purpled bruise marring the skin under her left eye and across her cheek. Raylan was working his jaw and looking like there was a ghost riding on his back, digging gnarled bones in him hard enough to hurt.

“Ava, I’m sorry,” Boyd said sincerely, wondering that his brother could have hidden such behavior for so many years. Never had he ever thought anything but mild verbal abuse was going on in that house, and Ava had often given as good as she’d got. Boyd hated now to think of everything that went on while he wasn’t there.

She looked between Raylan and Boyd, sharp eyes making the connection that no one in Harlan seemed to have done so far, though she’d had a certain amount of help just now.

Ava sniffed delicately and moved from behind Raylan, holding herself stiff and proud in the face of his hypocritical sympathy, and saying as she walked past him, “Don’t be, Boyd. What you boys do behind closed doors ain’t no business of mine.”

Boyd turned his eyes back to Raylan, who had a look on his face like maybe he wanted to apologize to Boyd, but was still too worked up to form those words. 

“It’s fine,” Boyd said without thinking, as if he knew for certain it would be. “I know,” he began, then stopped, not wanting to say it out loud, that he knew why Raylan had brought her, why he wouldn't have been able to just let it go. “I know, Raylan.”

They followed her inside the house. 

They didn’t get very far because Ava whirled on them in the entryway, the knowledge of just what was going on in the house probably sinking deep enough for her to become angry. “I would’ve thought you’d have better taste than _him_ , Raylan.”

Raylan smiled in his usual self-deprecating way, until he realized how real her anger was. 

He looked at Boyd, prompting him to try to head this off. “Ava,” he began.

She held up her hand. “I ain’t gonna be talking to you,” she said, keeping her eyes on Raylan. “All I’m saying is, you had best keep your boyfriend under control, Raylan Givens.”

Raylan looked to him, then back to Ava. “Did I miss something here?”

Boyd held his ground, fighting the desire to flee from the room. Ava’s smile went just a little cruel, riding an echo of the way he used to mock her, turning it back on him. “You thought I’d just forget all those things you said to me?” she asked Boyd.

“I did not,” Boyd answered, not bothering to point out that she’d said she wasn’t going to talk to him.

“What things?” Raylan asked.

“He doesn’t know?” she asked with manufactured surprise. “Well, maybe he ought to, Boyd. What do you think?”

“Maybe so, Ava. Raylan and I, we don’t keep things from each other.”

She snorted. “Really?”

Boyd made himself stay calm. “This just hasn’t happened to have come up, as of yet. You can surely tell him, if you like. At this moment, I’d probably sugar-coat it a little more than you can stomach.”

“I thought you didn’t lie?”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t break things gently.”

“Gently doesn’t really sound like you, Boyd.”

“Well, we haven’t spoken in quite a while, Ava.” Which was true, and a fact that Boyd sincerely regretted. When Boyd left the Commandos, when he moved into this house and put that shit behind him, he and Bowman had pretty much stopped talking.

Raylan was on a razor’s edge. Boyd didn’t even have to look at him to know. He hated being in the dark. “One of you, tell me what the hell it is that you’re talking about. I don’t care which, just say it.”

Boyd deferred to Ava with a slight gesture of his hands.

“You might be interested to know, Raylan, that Boyd here used to come on to me, his brother’s wife. All the time,” she looked right at him when she said this, right into Raylan’s eyes, unflinching. “In my house. In my kitchen. Outside my goddamn bathroom. Hard, Raylan, too. _Mean_.”

Raylan’s frown was real small and his eyes looked large in his face, which meant he was well and truly upset. He didn’t like being surprised like this. He flicked his eyes toward Boyd, and Boyd realized they were about to go down a much more dangerous road than he’d anticipated.

“Tell me.”

Ava’s lip quirked slowly and she looked right at Boyd as she walked up on Raylan. It only took two steps to put her in his space. She couldn’t produce quite the same effect as Boyd, seeing as she was a good head shorter than him. 

But she got the point across when she grabbed at Raylan’s arm, bumped her hip up against his and spoke in a low voice, “Hey Raylan, you know I can show you a better time than your Boyd. Yeah, I know he’s in th’other room right there. But I could have you right this minute. You see, I’d put my hand,” she raised her hand right up to Raylan’s cheek, and she looked right in his eyes. “This hand, right here. I’d put it over your mouth, real tight. So Boyd, he wouldn’t hear no sound come out.”

Ava looked over at Boyd again, and no one moved. Then she said, “Or I could take you out the holler road. Let my boys listen while I make you scream. They’d have their hands on their peckers, rubbing one out for every time you came. We’d have to wade through a sea of jizz to get you back inside this house. So maybe I better jus’ keep you--”

She broke off when Raylan stepped away. His eyes turned to Boyd, but Boyd couldn’t hold his gaze long and he only heard Raylan say, “shit,” stifled by his hand coming up over his mouth.

Boyd felt like he was going to be sick. His knees felt weak and his heart was pounding. He’d almost forgotten that’s how it was. He couldn’t believe how far he’d put it behind him, that those words now seemed so alien, like another person entirely. “Raylan,” he tried.

“Don’t talk to me,” Raylan snapped. His hand was up against the wall, like he needed support just as badly as Boyd did.

“Well, look at that. I caused you some marital strife.” She didn’t look sorry at all.

“We ain’t married,” Boyd croaked, though it made no sense that they could be.

“Lucky you.”

Raylan turned to her, apparently his ire was not solely reserved for Boyd. “Are you serious about leaving him?”

She didn’t answer right away, but she did say, “Yes,” in a stronger voice than Boyd was anticipating.

“Show her the guest room, then,” Raylan told Boyd without looking at him. “I gotta...” He trailed off with a vague motion of his hand. He adjusted his hat and fished his keys from his pocket on his way out the door.

Boyd stared at Ava for a long moment, until she actually began to look a little guilty, before he said, “I truly am sorry, Ava. For all of it.”

“I know,” she answered and he took her upstairs.

 

After Boyd showed her the room, the bathroom that she would have to share with them, unless she wanted to use the open commode in the basement, and told her she was welcome to anything in the kitchen. Ava looked at him and said, “You’re gonna go after him, right?”

“Oh, surely, Ava,” he said. “I thought I’d do as he asked first. And give him some time to think.”

Ava sat on the bed, keeping curious eyes on Boyd. “I take it you don’t fight much.”

Boyd smiled, feeling just a little strange about discussing such things with her, with anyone really. “We try to avoid it. Until now, we spent so little time together, fightin’ always seemed so counter-intuitive. Makes no sense to force a spat, spend half a day licking wounds, only to have one more night for making up.”

Ava’s smile almost reached her eyes. “Makin’ up’s more’n half the fun, Boyd.”

“You gonna be upset if you hear us doin’ just that later tonight?”

Ava looked away, and ran a nervous hand through her hair. “You know, he didn’t say nothin’ about you two. When he came to the door, and on the drive over here. I... didn’t really understand what I was walking into, you know?”

“We’re not real proficient at talkin’ about ourselves just yet, Ava.” Boyd grimaced. He took a step toward where she sat, but didn’t sit down until she invited him to.

Ava slipped off her high, red shoes and tucked her feet under her on the bed. Boyd remembered she used to curl up like that with a mug of something when he was over to watch football games with Bowman most Sundays. He remembered too that she used to pretend she wasn’t paying attention, but when something exciting happened, her eyes would be just as riveted to the screen. 

It was one of a thousand little details he couldn’t believe he’d forgotten about this woman, who he’d somehow pretended to love, hate, and lust after in such revolving order, he couldn’t even get them straight in his head anymore.

There was a shade of guilt in her eyes as she turned to him. “When Raylan came to my door today, I looked at him, and I... it was like he was walking right out of the past. I couldn’t help it. I just kissed him.”

Boyd blinked. “You kissed him?”

She drew a hand across her forehead. “Yeah. I did. On the mouth. There was a year or two of my life, most of what went through my head was how much I wanted to kiss Raylan Givens.”

“What did he do?” Boyd felt his lip quirking, but he forced the grin back, as Ava still looked so guilty about it.

“I think he was reeling from this,” she pointed to the dark marks across her eye and cheek. “So he didn’t do anything right away. I mean, he didn’t really kiss back or anything--”

At that, Boyd couldn’t hold it in anymore, he just busted out and kept on laughing through Ava’s helplessly embarrassed expression. “You ain’t really concerned I’m mad, are you?” Boyd asked.

“I don’t know,” she replied. “I’m all turned around today. Why are you bein’ so nice?”

“I’m not the man I used to be, Ava.”

Her mouth twisted up like she was fighting a smile. “Guess not,” she said then shrugged her shoulders. “Anyway, Raylan asked after Bowman and I told him he wasn’t home. He said somethin’ about how he expected so, on account of how I greeted him. Then he asked me if I needed help leaving.”

“And you said yes,” Boyd finished. He wasn’t surprised. “Raylan can be quite persuasive. Especially...about situations like yours.”

She nodded, understanding in her eyes before she groaned and put her head in her hands. “I thought I was leaving _with_ him, Boyd!”

He laughed again and she smacked him on the arm, a rueful grin finally emerging.

“Raylan is Raylan,” Boyd said, tilting his head. “I ain’t blamin’ you.”

There must have been something in his face that caught her notice, because her expression took on some kind of surprised wonderment. “You really do love him,” she said in a hushed voice. “I can’t even believe you like boys that way. Good Lord, what’s your family gonna say?”

Boyd sighed and stood up, suddenly becoming more uncomfortable than he’d like to admit. He looked at her and spoke sincerely, “I like _Raylan_ , Ava. Always have. So, yeah, about the first thing you said. We’re tryin’ to figure it out, okay? And I’m pretty sure my family ain’t gonna say anything. They’re just gonna pull out their firearms and start demanding shit.”

“You tryin’ to figure out what you’re gonna do about that, too?”

“We thought maybe we had some time, but now, I’m not so sure. Bowman’s gonna be after you. He’ll probably think you went to Limehouse first.”

Ava nodded. “I did that once, about a year ago. But then, I was just tryin’ to punish him. Harlan men, they don’t like that kind of cut to their pride, especially from that holler. I went back to work on Monday, and Bowman drug me home from there.”

“I’m sorry, Ava,” Boyd didn’t know what else he could say.

She shrugged. “It’s more my fault now than it ever was. If I’d been serious about it the first few times. If I could bring myself to leave this place behind. But I can’t. I--”

Boyd sat back down swiftly and took her hand in his. “Ava, shut up.”

She blinked at him.

“This ain’t your fault at all, don’t let me catch you again saying it might be. It’s Bowman’s fault for being a selfish, power-hungry, asshole. And it’s my Daddy’s for raising him that way.”

“You turned out okay,” she said, brows furrowed.

Boyd laughed and looked away. “That... oh, that’s all Raylan.”

“You better go get him, then,” she said with a small smile. 

 

Boyd had to think for a few minutes, driving aimlessly along steadily darkening roads, before he realized where Raylan would go.

The lights at the ballpark were turned on, shining down bright on the batting cage, when Boyd pulled up.

The boys on the team must have been away for a game because the place was deserted. Raylan’s jacket and hat were stowed in his car and he must have jimmied a lock on some equipment room or other, because he was swinging away as the balls came steadily at him. 

Boyd watched him hit two grounders and a foul ball, moving gracefully through the swing, maybe only a little stiffer and slower than when they were still walking the halls of this very school. He watched, knowing full well Raylan knew he was there, before he approached. The machine shot two more balls out at Raylan and he swung at them, but missed, his eyes flicking to Boyd and away. He tossed the bat aside, disgustedly.

“I haven’t done this in a while,” Raylan admitted, speaking first, and quietly. “Something about being here, home. Makes me think about it sometimes. I remember I used to come bat late at night, to get away from Arlo.”

“I remember, too,” Boyd said. He’d pulled a sixer out of the fridge before he left and he handed one to Raylan now.

He took it with a restrained smile. “I hoped you would.”

They drank in silence for a few minutes, each leaning against a far side of the cage. There was maybe about ten feet between them.

“I didn’t think you had any illusions about what I was doing at that time, Raylan.” Boyd finally said.

“No, I don’t,” he answered. “I just never put much thought into wondering what you were actually like.”

Of course not. It was easier that way. They both knew it.

Boyd took a long pull from his beer. “It’s hard to explain. Maybe... maybe it’s like a disease, Raylan. No, like a drug. I spent so much time, puttin’ on this show for those boys. Being the leader, makin’ sure they knew who was boss. I did it in front of them, in front of Ava and Bowman. That was easy. Daddy loved that shit. He’d laugh and laugh to hear me tear those boys up, rip Bowman down. After a while, it was hard to turn off.”

Raylan raised his brows. His arms were crossed in front of him, his beer in his hand, dripping with condensation. “You weren’t like that for Arlo’s funeral. Not that night, and... not after.”

“You were the only one I could turn it off for. You gonna make me tell you why?”

Raylan dropped the beer, crossing the cage fast and fierce, and kissed him, pulling him up close and rough. His hands were charged with anger he hadn’t yet let go of, and Boyd was wound up so tight from all of it that he pushed back just as hard. 

They tussled more than anything, Raylan pushing him up first against the chain link of the cage, then Boyd dragging them down to the ground, rustling up dun-tan dirt, with a measure of force they didn’t normally use.

The only sounds Boyd could hear were his own muffled grunts intermingled with Raylan’s as they scrambled at each other for purchase, fighting with fingers and tongues, blocking a jutting elbow, a braced knee. 

They didn’t bother to try and divest each other of any clothing, Boyd was too turned on to think about it. He just needed to be closer. His cock was hard in his jeans as he rutted up against Raylan’s hip. He didn’t remember how he got to be the one on top.

When the sound of the road off in the distance increased in volume to the slow patrol of a security vehicle, they froze against each other.

Raylan let out a muttered, “shit,” as Boyd sighed and tried to calm himself.

“Race you home,” he said.

They were sneaking through the fence and around the cars, grinning at each other, as the guard parked on the other side of the park and got out of his truck. Raylan winked at Boyd when he slipped into the Lincoln.

They left the lights on, the pitching machine out, and the bat and the beer in the cage, ready for the team when they returned. Boyd couldn’t remember ever having driven so fast on Harlan County roads.

 

Raylan got up the drive before Boyd did, but only just, and he had his hat and his coat in his hand when Boyd pushed him up against the side of his car.

This time, Boyd was slow and brutal, kissing Raylan’s mouth with a quiet fervor born of having to make himself wait. 

Raylan only had one hand on him--God forbid that hat ever fall to the ground--so he didn’t press up so hard, letting Boyd take the lead. His free hand came up to Boyd’s neck, cradling it gently as their lips parted and they met each other’s eyes, taking it all in.

“Tell me,” Raylan said and his smile was almost flirtatious, like they were trying something out. “No, show me. Show me what you’d wanna do.”

Boyd froze in Raylan’s arms and looked at him wide-eyed. “I got a big imagination, Raylan.”

“We got all night, Boyd,” he whispered, sinking his fingers a little deeper in the thin skin at the back of Boyd’s head, through the short strands of his hair. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere. And... I wanna know.” 

Maybe Raylan wasn’t even thinking about it that way, but it hit Boyd like a freight train. 

Raylan didn’t care. Raylan wasn’t going to ignore it. He wanted to hear it. He wanted to know. Boyd could barely stand the idea of it. Acceptance.

“I don’t believe you know what you’re askin’ for,” he said, leaning toward breathless.

There was danger in Raylan’s eyes when he replied, “Don’t I?”

Boyd took that challenge, let it settle over his shoulders.

He glared and slid his hand down fast from Raylan’s shoulder to his wrist, gripping it savagely. He pulled him away from the car, down the walk, and up the porch steps. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the jacket and hat were still in Raylan’s other hand, so he turned and snarled, “Leave it,” while still leading them up and into the house.

Raylan dropped them without a word.

Boyd pushed Raylan up against the wall at the bottom of the stairs. Raylan’s smile was small and it disappeared then reappeared, on and off, like he was trying to fight it. But Boyd didn’t give a shit. He looked at Raylan hard and said, “You’re gonna tell me if you want to stop, Raylan.”

“You think I scare that easy?

Boyd clamped his hand on Raylan’s hip, pressing hard into the wall, his fingers digging into fabric and skin. “Promise me.”

He bent his head, leaned in close to Boyd’s ear and whispered. “I promise. Now, show me. I’m tired of waiting.”

Boyd pressed his forearm up against Raylan’s neck, not hard enough to choke, but thrusting the back of his head up against the wall, turning his cheek to the smooth, white surface. “You gotta remember, Ava’s upstairs, son. So you _can’t make a sound_. Do you hear me?”

Raylan’s eyes were turned to their corners, and they were wide and full of something Boyd couldn’t put a name to. He nodded.

Boyd pulled him up the stairs.

Raylan asked Boyd to fuck him maybe once a year or so, sometimes longer in between. The first time, Boyd had come close to refusing. 

It was one of those nights that it was obvious Raylan was hurting over something, what it was, he had never said. Not even after. But Boyd had done it, knowing Raylan wouldn’t ask unless he really meant it, and not wanting to mess up the weekend with a fight about sex. 

Afterwards, Raylan had smiled at him, like nothing had ever been wrong and said, “I didn’t think it would be like that.” He’d kissed Boyd real sweet then, like he was thinking he might not leave again. 

The last time was maybe a year and a half before, and Raylan had been real drunk, smiling and playful. He always wanted to try new things when they got wasted together. 

That night, he’d told Boyd to just make him come with his fingers up inside, that and nothing else. It had been quite a sight to see Raylan’s swollen, red cock, straining by its lonesome against his belly, spurting a load of come up between them, with only Boyd’s hand and a few murmured words of encouragement. Boyd had used that for masturbation material for months afterwards.

But tonight, Boyd was gonna fuck Raylan without him having to ask first.

He pushed Raylan onto the bed with a slow smile, he looked the boy up and down carefully, but with gently arched brows, like he was nothing special. Raylan didn’t say anything, but the look in his eye was a little affronted, like he wanted to.

“Well, Raylan,” Boyd said softly, but with an edge to it he rarely used anymore. “We can’t have no fun if your clothes are still on, can we?”

Raylan opened his mouth to offer up some witty retort, but Boyd snaked his arm out and snatched at the buttons at the top of Raylan’s shirt, ripping it down and open, popping off a few in the process. Raylan stared at him open-mouth, stalk-still and wide-eyed until Boyd let his smile get mean and then ordered, “Finish the job.”

He stripped off his own shirt without ceremony, tossing it to the side and noting Raylan’s eyes as they were inevitably caught by the ink on his upper arm. In the dim light of the room, his pale skin reflected it, and the black of that symbol, now long abandoned, sucked it all in.

Raylan hardly seemed to notice it anymore, not when they were dressing in the morning, or hopping in and out of the shower. His eyes skimmed over it in the dark without pause when they were together and often, so did his lips. 

But tonight, he stared hard at its smooth edges and hard corners and Raylan was looking at it like it was the most dangerous and beautiful thing he’d ever seen, and it wasn’t because of what it meant, it was because it was on him, part of his past, part of what they were doing. 

Boyd was glad he’d only stuck around long enough to get just the one tattoo, because he didn’t think he could take any more of that shit right now.

He watched Raylan undress, leaning up against their shared dresser with his arms crossed in front of him, staring the man down like he was a piece of meat. He forced himself not to show any appreciation, though his cock was letting him know how much he liked what he was looking at.

Raylan wasn’t smiling anymore, but he didn’t look pissed, nor did he look like he wasn’t enjoying himself just as much. “Looks like you’re raring to go, son,” Boyd murmured when Raylan was in the middle of stripping off his boxers. “Too bad I’m gonna get mine first.”

Raylan tilted his head, standing before Boyd with not a stitch on him, asking a question without words.

Boyd unbuckled his belt swiftly, but didn’t entirely divest himself of his jeans. He took his cock out, hard in his own hand and came up fast on Raylan, catching him by the hair. Boyd let his eyelids fall half-closed when he heard Raylan’s hiss of pain. He didn’t cry out and Boyd loved him for it.

“I’m gonna split you open, Raylan Givens,” Boyd said low and fast into Raylan’s ear, his hand twisting hard in the strands of his hair. “I’m gonna take you up the back and ride you ‘til you don’t know which way is up. I’m gonna turn you inside out and your fucking world upside down, and you’re gonna do me the courtesy of not making a goddamn sound while I do it.”

Raylan eyes were steady as they looked sidelong into Boyd’s. He wasn’t saying no, and he wasn’t scared either. He resisted the pull of Boyd’s hand on his hair for just a second, one little tug back on him, then relaxed again. Boyd took this as a yes. 

He turned back fast to the dresser and grabbed a bottle of lube, stuffing it into the back pocket of his sagging jeans, then he twisted his arm around, thrusting Raylan down onto the bed. He caught himself with his hands, palms down, elbows braced, but Boyd pushed him further, pressing his face into the mattress. Raylan grunted and the noise went straight to Boyd’s cock.

Boyd climbed up behind Raylan, pushing hard at the backs of his knees so his backside rose up, and he put a hand on either side of his hips, to get them right where he wanted. He dug his fingers into the softer flesh there, hard enough to bruise, searching for bone and making Raylan hiss through his teeth. 

“I know you like this shit, Raylan,” Boyd murmured, clamping down harder. “I can hear it when you suck up that air, it’s as good as words, baby. But I’m gonna ask real nice for you to remember what I said.” He leaned forward, far up on Raylan’s back, and spoke quietly again in his ear, punctuating each word with a swift tug on his hair, in short strokes that pulled his head steadily back further and further, while the weight of Boyd’s body kept his back still bent forward. “Don’t. Make. A. Sound.”

Boyd pulled off fast, keeping a hand on Raylan’s hip to stop him from reeling forward, and settled his stiff cock on the cleft of Raylan’s buttocks. He squeezed some of that lube over his fingers and thrust them up inside, two first instead of one, despite how long it had been since Raylan had done this. Boyd knew he could take it, would want it that way. He bit back a groan and Boyd grinned down at him like a fool, glad his eyes were stuck facing away.

Raylan’s hands twisted in the bedspread and his breaths echoed back up to Boyd as he worked him open, moving his fingers faster and harder than he’d ever done before. Raylan squirmed under him, the muscles in his abdomen and torso contracting, trying to suppress the sound of his pleasure, and as they did, Boyd’s cock felt every buck of his hips. The tendons in his neck stretched taut and strained down, as if bowing to the power of Boyd’s swiftly working fingers. 

The idea sent Boyd reeling himself and he pushed forward without thought, forcing Raylan’s head down onto the mattress and a hiss of pain through his teeth. “Fuck,” Boyd ground out, reaching up to grasp at Raylan’s shoulder and pull him back up, then pulling his fingers out to grasp his cock and slide himself into Raylan.

It was a sensation Boyd hadn’t felt in a while, and it was something like arriving home after a long journey. He didn’t dwell too long on the thought. Instead, he listened to Raylan’s heavy breath, deep draughts of air that increased in frequency as Boyd began to move inside him. He was so tight, and so good that Boyd forgot for a moment not to be gentle with him.

But Raylan pushed back. Still wordless, he fell out of rhythm with Boyd’s thrusts until Boyd remembered himself and dug his fingers back in, forcing Raylan back into sync. He pulled back on Raylan’s shoulder and leaned forward, making his chest and Raylan’s back collide, hearing the impact of their sweat soaked skin in a sticky slap. 

Raylan’s breath hitched and Boyd found himself speaking to him. “That’s right, boy. You an’ me, son. And I... I know all about you, I know how to make you come. I’m gonna fucking bathe in you, Raylan. I’m gonna...” Boyd muttered, losing track of exactly what he was saying, knowing it made not a lick of actual sense, “gonna split you fucking open.”

“Boyd,” Raylan finally broke, saying his name like a curse, bursting out of him like he couldn’t hold it any longer. Boyd was sure he was too far gone to care.

He was almost there, so, so close, going faster now, and brutal. He leaned down again and spoke low in Raylan’s ear. “Touch yourself,” he ordered, “and think about your life.”

Raylan came before he did.

 

When Boyd pulled out, his limbs were quivering from exertion and he nearly fell backwards off the bed, but Raylan’s hand shot out and steadied him, catching his wrist and pulling him back gently. 

They didn’t say anything for an amount of time that Boyd couldn’t really speak to. He might have dozed there, sprawled out on his stomach, as Raylan turned over on his back next to him. Raylan hadn’t let go of him and, somewhere between a few and several moments later, Boyd realized their fingers had become intertwined.

He opened his eyes and looked into Raylan’s. They were shadowed in the darkness of the room, but twinkling like stars right at Boyd. “Come on,” he said.

Raylan pulled him up by the hand, and together they got his jeans and underwear pulled down around his feet and he kicked them off on the way to the bathroom.

Boyd just sort of watched, leaning against the cool tile, as Raylan took care of everything. 

He moved swiftly, pulling the towels out of the cupboard, turning on the tricky faucet, and arranging the shower curtain in the specific way it had to be so the water didn’t get all over the place, with a degree of comfort he hadn’t shown before the past few months, one that must have been slowly building the more time he spent in the house. 

The realization hit Boyd, though it shouldn’t have been at all surprising, that Raylan lived here now, with him. He knew how to take care of things.

“Hey,” Raylan said, touching his cheek gently to get his attention, and looking worriedly at him. Boyd just smiled and Raylan huffed a laugh, pushing him into the shower.

Boyd was still a little unsteady on his feet, so he was glad for Raylan’s hands again when they maneuvered him under the shower’s spray and held on as he let the water run over him. He reached out and caught Raylan by the waist, careful to avoid the bruises at his hips and thighs that he could already see forming from the force of his fingers. He knew Raylan wasn’t going to complain, but he looked down at them and still felt a stab of guilt.

Raylan stepped into his arms, letting his hands fall to Boyd’s own hips, as if he knew just what he was thinking about. Boyd leaned his head forward and bent to let it rest on Raylan’s shoulder, releasing a long sigh.

They stood like that for a minute, and Boyd might have fallen asleep again right there if Raylan hadn’t said quietly, “Okay, Boyd?”

Boyd knew the question wasn’t only, are you okay? It was also, is this okay, are we okay? 

He was, so much that he closed his eyes. It was, so much that he pulled Raylan closer still. And they were, so so much, so he said, “Yes, Raylan.” Then added, “but… let’s not do this again for a while, all right?”

“All right.” Raylan replied.

 

They were in bed, both at least partially clothed, as there was a guest in the house, when Boyd finally remembered to ask Raylan about Ava’s kiss.

“Shit,” Raylan muttered into his pillow. “I was hopin’ she wouldn’t mention that.”

Boyd laughed softly and turned to face him, sinking low into the mattress and letting his muscles relax. “And you couldn’t have at least given her a warning about us? Poor girl.”

“And say what?” Raylan asked. “Sorry you kissed me, Ava. Despite your moves being both weirdly insane and incredibly sexy, I’m already taken by your brother-in-law I don’t know that you hate.”

“I think we’re working through that,” Boyd replied with a grin, then slid his hand down Raylan’s arm. “Sexy, huh?”

Raylan looked away, fighting an embarrassed smile. “It was okay.” Then he turned back to Boyd, almost as an afterthought, leaned half over him and kissed him softly on the lips.

They pressed close to each other, not saying anything for a while, and Boyd closed his eyes, thinking of sleep. After it didn’t come immediately, despite the exhaustion he felt, he finally asked the last question that had been preying on his mind.

“What did you go over there for anyway, Raylan?” Boyd asked quietly, knowing Raylan also wasn’t asleep yet. He was’t entirely sure he wanted an answer.

Raylan settled further down under the sheets and answered with a sigh, “Your brother’s been forging signatures on government checks.”

When Boyd’s face darkened, Raylan looked at him with a look that said they both knew something like this would come up. “Art just asked me to do the preliminary investigation. Treasury will take over from here. By the time they do, Bowman’s gonna clean house. They won’t find anything.”

Boyd wasn’t sure if he should be glad of it or not and Raylan’s eyes told him the same story.

 

Boyd met Ava on the landing the next morning and he stepped aside to let her pass. She smiled knowingly at him and said, “You know, Boyd, I think you got some rodents in your walls or somethin’. I heard some funny thumpin’ around last night, and some creaking. You might want to get a man in here, take a look around.”

“I’ll think on that some, Ava,” he replied flatly. “Raylan’s just finishing up in the shower, by the way, so we’ll get the coffee goin’ after he comes down. Can’t run any water, or we’ll scald him.”

“These old houses,” she groused as they entered the kitchen. “Can’t get up to no fun without someone messin’ it up for you.”

Boyd laughed. “You’re funny, sweetheart. I think I’ll keep you around.”

She sat down at the table and folded her hands prettily in front of her. “Only if Raylan says it’s okay though, right?”

Boyd pulled some eggs out of the fridge and turned to wink at her. “I won’t tell you what he said about that kiss.”

She hid her eyes behind her hand, embarrassed all over again and cried, still smiling, “Boyd--” but was interrupted by the sound of a car coming up the drive.

Raylan thundered down the stairs a second later, shirtless with his glock in two hands. “Boyd,” he called, and Boyd went for the shotgun in the hall closet.

“Get in the basement, Ava, there’s no windows down there,” he told her and her eyes got real big, but not scared, just angry. “Do it,” he told her. “If he sees you from the outside, we’ll have to shoot him to stop him comin’ in. We’ll get him out of here, then we’ll take you to Limehouse.”

“Damn it,” she swore and slipped through the door, taking the stairs faster than Raylan did.

By the time Boyd got outside, Bowman and Raylan had already had words.

“What do you think you’re gonna do, Bowman?” Raylan was saying, his hand resting on his holster as he stood wide open to the hunting rifle aimed at his chest.

Boyd looked at his brother. Bowman didn’t really seem very different than the last time Boyd had seen him. He still had the wider-set eyes and larger nose of the Crowder clan and, with that beard he was growing, he looked even more like their cousin Johnny in the face than he ever had before.

Their mother used to tell Boyd the only thing he’d got from his daddy was that smile of his, nothing but teeth and strong feelings. Boyd liked hearing that, liked even more remembering it, because it meant if he had to look for her after she’d gone, the closest place to go would be his own face.

Bowman never had that. 

He favored the Crowder side so forcefully that when their Gram had still been alive and kicking around at the cabin up near Banks holler, she’d only ever call him by the name Bo and would often hold his face in her hands and tell him it wouldn’t be long before his daddy was back from all the fighting in Korea.

Years later, Boyd wondered if all that confusion had given Bowman some sort of complex.

It probably didn’t help, all the attention that Bowman got in high school as an All-American running back. He was still built like a football player now. He was taller than both Boyd and Johnny and seemed to be gaining on the old man in the weight department, though he carried it well. 

He wasn’t a man to be lightly dismissed, that was, until he opened his damn mouth.

“Imma shoot someone if I don’t see my wife out on this porch this fuckin’ minute, Raylan.”

“She ain’t here,” Raylan lied and smiled. “What are you gonna do now?”

Boyd leaned his shoulder against the porch railing, eyes on Raylan and not on his brother, fingers fiddling with the barrel of the shotgun resting against his legs. Raylan glanced at him hard, and shook his head once, minutely. No, he was saying. Don’t you draw on your brother, Boyd.

They both knew it wasn’t something you could come back from.

“Don’t think I ain’t gonna tell Daddy about this, Boyd,” Bowman spat, hands at the trigger loosening as the will to shoot left him. “Don’t think he ain’t gonna hear about you...and him.” There was disgust in Bowman’s voice, nothing Boyd hadn’t expected. “Fuckin’ fags.”

Boyd just looked at him, his face betraying nothing. He knew it was meant only as an insult. Bowman didn’t know anything, he was just tossing around infantile names, aiming to anger, to provoke. Boyd wasn’t going to dignify it with an answer. It was time to make a choice, and damn if it wasn’t always his family pushing him into doing the things he ought not to, making it no choice at all.

Bowman sputtered, eyes widening then narrowing in anger. “Ain’t you gonna deny it?”

Boyd’s brows furrowed and he thought about laughing for a moment, before deciding that might just push his brother into the kind of rage under the influence of which he’d shoot a person without thought. So he only said, “No,” shaking his head slightly and saying it like Bowman was some kind of moron.

“Y-you an’ him?” Bowman cried, motioning to Raylan, and apparently forgetting all about his wife. “Really are fucking in this house?”

Boyd glanced at Raylan, who had lowered his weapon just slightly, seeing as Bowman’s was nearly to the ground, he was so slack-jawed shocked at this new development. “Yeah, Bowman,” Raylan said, smirk spreading a crooked line across his face, “Did it just last night. I took your brother twice up the ass, then he slapped me around with his pecker for an hour and a half straight. We had the time of our goddamn lives. I swallowed so much come my belly hurts this mornin’.”

“Now...” Bowman was clearly at a loss for words. “Now... I really am gonna tell Daddy. And you’re gonna be in a mess o’ trouble from him, Boyd. You know you will.” Boyd felt mildly disgusted by the level to which the conversation had sunk.

“You go on, Bowman,” he said, turning about, lifting the gun into his hands. He didn’t aim it, just let it rest there, real comfortable. “You tell your tales to the big man. We’ll see what he can do from behind those bars.”

Bowman spat again and retreated, hate in his eyes, to his vehicle, spinning tires and revving engines down the hill.

Raylan just looked at Boyd.

“He won’t do anything,” Boyd said.

“Bowman?”

“No, Daddy,” Boyd sighed. “He’ll call ‘em rumors, ‘til he gets out. Then he’ll come see us. He’ll talk to me. Give me a chance to fix it.” Fix it, like he’d told him with the pot out of the back door of the bar, or like he’d told him with the army--though there hadn’t been anything to do at that point. Fix it, like he’d told him with the Givens house in the first place, though Bo went to jail just under a month later. “When I don’t, that’s when he’ll do something. That’s when we got to worry, Raylan.”

“He ain’t gonna get out for years,” Raylan said.

“Three,” Boyd replied.

 

They hadn’t known on that day, how fast the news that Bowman carried would travel or how deep a cord it would strike in Harlan County and its people. When everything did come to a head, Boyd would look on the day Raylan brought Ava home as a sort of quiet rain before an oncoming storm, or the shot that sparked a bloody war.

Boyd would be grateful that he and Raylan had been able to cultivate the relative peace they needed to come to terms with what they held between them and what they’d be willing to do to keep it.


	2. Close Those Shutters Up Against the Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Chapter Two, Boyd and Raylan must deal with the interest of their neighbors and coworkers as news of their relationship spreads through Harlan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to betas rillalicious and thornfield_girl, without which this chapter and all of the others would not nearly have been so awesome.
> 
> Feedback is much appreciated. Enjoy!

Raylan didn’t like the house when it was empty.

It creaked with age and groaned against the wind blowing through the holler. The walls, even covered with fresh paint, still reeked in places of the Marlboros Arlo would smoke, and sunny days would bring the scent of his mother’s perfume out of the wood in the master bedroom.

The innards of the house were no different than they used to be, despite all of Boyd’s attentions. It was those sounds and smells that made up its core, that last a lifetime, unchanged, and when he was alone there they reminded Raylan of his childhood so much more than at any other time.

Raylan was pacing around the kitchen in abrupt starts and stops in the low light of a Sunday afternoon, thinking on how much he hated being in the house by himself and trying to ignore the way the old stove was clicking--three little strikes of some kind of loose bolt as the heat rushed through the baseboard. He felt restless, and filled with some sort of unexplainable nervous energy.

Boyd should have been home by now from the mine and they were planning to grill out on the back porch later that night. Helen said she might be over. They hadn’t visited in a while. 

He hated being in the damn house by himself.

Despite how long the two of them had been living there--and it was coming up on six months now--Raylan still hadn’t been able to get used to it. 

He knew the ins and outs of living there, knew everything Boyd did on how to make things work these days, where to find everything. But often, and not just when Boyd wasn’t around, he could still see the landscape out those windows, and be unable to shake off the memories of years gone by, when he would stare out them in the night or the cold and wish he could get far away, and fast.

Raylan was about to get up for a beer from the kitchen table, where he’d been attempting to go over some work documents, when his phone rang, an insistent buzz that more often than not came along with some trouble.

The number was Boyd’s and Raylan felt something uneasy curl up in his stomach.

“Boyd,” he said cautiously.

“Raylan, hey,” Boyd’s voice came over the line with a strange hesitance. “Listen, um...”

“What’s wrong?”

There was a pause, a long one, Raylan thought, as he counted it by the loud, nervous beating of his heart. “I don’t even know what happened, I--” Boyd cut himself off and seemed to decide just to get whatever it was right out. “Raylan, I am very, very drunk. I need you to come get me, because I surely cannot drive right now, and...” 

“Boyd, you only been off shift for like an hour. Wh- Nevermind, where are you?” 

Raylan fished his keys out of the bowl on the table and started scrawling a note to Helen before Boyd answered, “Audrey’s. Raylan, I’m sorry, I--”

“Shut up. I’m comin’”

Raylan sped to that puddle in record time and blew inside like a devil on a hot wind. Boyd was hunched over the bar, a drained glass of ice in front of him, sweating out the remainder of its life all over the rough wooden bar top. There was a little guy sitting next to him, it looked like they’d been talking before Raylan walked in, but now the whole place was silent.

Boyd looked up from his glass, and as soon as he saw Raylan a big, wide smile spread across his face. There was a vagueness to his eyes. They were lacking that sharp, bright spark they usually held, even when he was very, very drunk.

“Hey,” Raylan said before Boyd could speak. “Let’s go.” There was something off about this whole thing, and by something, he was really thinking everything.

Boyd’s smile seemed to only get bigger and everyone in the puddle was so fucking quiet, Raylan’s stomach was churning and his hand itched to go to his sidearm. “You sure you don’t wanna stick around? Have one with me, Raylan?”

Three men in the back, still in mining coveralls, just like Boyd, started smirking and Raylan lost it.

He strode over to the bar and grabbed Boyd by his arm, pulling him roughly off the stool and behind him. Boyd’s feet were far too unsteady and he almost fell, but Raylan slid an arm around him and held on until he got himself right.

“Shit,” Boyd muttered, like he always did when he’d had too much. “Raylan...” he began, but trailed off like he was completely lost.

Raylan pulled a hand up to Boyd’s cheek and stared right into his eyes. They were dilated wide open in a way that was not normal and Raylan suddenly knew for certain what was going on here.

“You came here right after shift, didn’t you?” he asked Boyd quietly. “Why?”

Boyd’s brow furrowed and Raylan’s jaw clenched as he answered, “I can’t remember. Raylan, I’m-- maybe we should just go?”

“Yeah, in just a minute.” Raylan turned to the bartender, pushing Boyd directly behind him and planting a hand firmly on his weapon. “Tell me, how many drinks has this man had?”

The bartender raised his hands, his face going white. “Listen man, I got--”

“Just give me a number, asshole.”

“Two.”

“Mmhmm.” Raylan flicked his eyes over to the little guy, let his gaze wander over every man inside that bar, putting names to some, memorizing the faces of others. Boyd was leaning against his back now and Raylan’s hand tightened on his arm. “What’s your name, son?” he asked the little guy. “I don’t think I know you.”

He couldn’t have been much older than eighteen, had a big old square head set on top of a skinny neck and some interesting tattoos, along with a croc-tooth collar and the sleeves cut off of his ratty t-shirt. “D-dewey Crowe,” he said. His voice had a lower twang, not from Harlan. Raylan hadn’t thought so.

“You were talking to my friend, here?”

The stupid fuck just could not keep that smirk off his face. “Y-you mean your boyfriend?”

Raylan smiled, slow and angry. Dewey Crowe visibly shrank from it and he looked as though he shat his pants when Raylan drew his weapon up fast just a second later.

Usually, Raylan did not pull his sidearm unless he had intent to shoot. But he felt it in his bones that these dickheads wouldn’t listen to him unless they were staring down a barrel.

“Yeah, my boyfriend, Boyd fucking Crowder,” Raylan ground through his teeth. “You were talking to him, Dewey. What about?”

Dewey Crowe seemed to be struck dumb, his hands were high in the air. Boyd leaned harder into Raylan, pressing his lips to the back of his neck, and wrapping his free hand slowly around Raylan’s waist. He pulled at him and slurred, breath hot against Raylan’s skin, “C’mon Raylan, quit wavin’ that thing around. Let’s just go, a’right, baby?”

“Yeah,” Raylan assured him. “Just one other thing.” He glared at each and every body in that room and said, “You like to think I ain’t from here, don’t you? To pretend that we just fuckin’ blew in from out of town? I know you, assholes. The ones I don’t know, _he_ does. You wanted a show, you fucking got one. But I’m telling you right now, if you come near us again, any one of you, I’ll throw in jail for harassment. And, you know Boyd, it won’t go so easy with him. He’ll put you in the fucking ground and he won’t tell me where he buried you. You just try it.”

He walked backwards out of the place, pushing Boyd out behind him and slinging an arm around his waist again when he stumbled.

They earned a look from some guy pulling up in a beat up old truck. Boyd was being fairly handsy as they shuffled their way down the wooden steps from the puddle, but Raylan just glared at the guy, not giving a damn at all, and he stayed in the cab until they passed by.

“Where’s your truck, Boyd?”

Boyd had his head turned toward Raylan’s neck His right arm was slung over Raylan’s shoulder and his left was pulling at Raylan’s belt loops, fumbling ridiculously for Raylan’s belt.

“I don’t know,” he mumbled, near Raylan’s ear. 

“You left it at the mine?” Raylan tried again.

He leaned Boyd against the hood of the car, on the passenger side, as soon as they reached it and pulled Boyd’s face up, trying to get him to meet his eyes. Boyd moved to press himself closer, but Raylan held him back.

“Talk to me a second,” he said and tried to smile. “You think you left it there, at the mine? They drag you out here in one of theirs?” 

It may not have been a literal dragging, not like Boyd would have let them jump him. But given enough friendly, passive aggressive pressure, Boyd probably would have gone, just to avoid a confrontation. He probably thought he could get out of there after one, and be home without having to even tell Raylan about it. 

Boyd looked around, as if trying to figure out where he was, rather than how he’d got there. “I can’t remember. Maybe. Why are you asking? Your car’s here, right?” His brow was furrowed, his eyes confused.

Raylan finally relented, letting him slump forward and pressing a kiss to Boyd’s temple. “Yeah, it is,” he agreed.

He heard the slow, soft exhale that always accompanied Boyd’s biggest, sweetest grins, and had to jump away when his hand pressed down at his crotch. “Shit,” Raylan swore, “Knock that off, Boyd.” He was laughing as Raylan pushed him inside the car.

A few of the miners were standing outside the door or the puddle, beers in hand, watching them. Raylan scowled, strode around the front of the Town Car, and drove out of there as fast as he could.

“We’ll get your truck later. Tomorrow,” he said, unable to keep the anger from his voice.

Raylan glanced over and saw that Boyd had his knees tucked up under his chin. He’d washed his face after coming up from the black, but his hands, his knuckles at least, were still covered in caked-on coal dust, as were his coveralls.

Boyd looked at Raylan with wide eyes, dark from whatever those assholes had slipped him, and his mouth was open like he wanted to say something.

“What?” Raylan said, wincing at the bite of his tone and jutting his jaw in frustration.

Boyd blinked at him then got this utterly unfamiliar look of dejection on his face as he asked, “You mad at me?”

Raylan’s stomach dropped and he pressed too hard on the brake, sending them both jerking forwards and then back, as he switched back to the gas to turn them around the curves of the winding state road they were on.

Usually, under normal circumstances, even abnormal ones, Boyd would know exactly when Raylan was mad, who with, why, and whether or not it was complete bullshit.

He took a deep breath, and looked over at Boyd, trying to catch his eye, make sure he was paying attention, and still keep half an eye on the road. “Listen to me,” he said, in as patient a tone as he could muster at the moment. “Boyd, I ain’t mad. Not at you. We’ll just... talk about it more tomorrow, okay?” He glanced over again and insisted at Boyd’s unsure expression, “I swear, I ain’t mad at you.”

“Okay,” he said and sort of tilted his head back and around idly. It was real weird seeing Boyd act so loose, his eyes looking bigger than usual, his expression changing by the minute. His frown and furrowed brow of moments before were gone like they had never been and he was smiling like someone just told him a dirty joke.

He started talking. Not a lot. He’d just break the silence every minute or so with an odd observation, or some information Raylan had never heard before, about things when Raylan was gone or when Boyd was down in the mine. They were little things, like who was looking at him the wrong way, or who‘d said something borderline offensive just within earshot. He knew Boyd dealt with this kind of stuff, a lot more than Raylan had to, and kept his mouth shut about it. 

There wasn’t anything either of them could do, so Raylan didn’t say much. Just a grunt or an “Oh yeah?” every so often and Boyd kept on talking, smile coming and going, fingers tracing funny little patterns in coal dust on the window at his side. Raylan wasn’t going to say anything about any of it, and he hoped Boyd wouldn’t remember.

“I got a letter from Daddy,” Boyd said with a half-smile, looking out the window. They were about three minutes out from the house, but Raylan nearly swerved off the familiar road when he heard that.

“ _Excuse me_?”

“Letter from the big man,” Boyd said, looking at him now, head tilted back again like he couldn’t hold it up. “Told me to _fix it_. Like I said he would.”

“You said we had ‘til he got out. That he was gonna talk to you.” Raylan was not going to argue about how Boyd had hid it from him, not right now anyway.

Boyd smiled like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard and replied, “Rumor mill’s workin’ overtime, Raylan. We’re big news. Can’t ignore news like us. Can’t say it ain’t true if everybody knows. If people see.”

Neither of them thought it would be like this. Hell, they hadn’t expected anything like what had happened today, what was currently running its course through Boyd’s bloodstream. Him and Boyd, they’d done something no one in Harlan had expected, least of all from the men in their families. It was a testament to how shaken some people were by the revelation of their relationship that hardly anyone was minding their own business about it. 

“Shit,” Raylan spat just as they came up the hill to the house. Helen was sitting on the porch.

Boyd just laughed.

“What happened to him?” Helen asked with more curiosity than concern in her voice as Raylan pulled him from the car.

Boyd’s legs could barely support him, even with Raylan’s help, and he was still laughing as they started making their way up to the house. “Fuckin’ assholes from the mine. Slipped something into his drink at the puddle.”

Helen came down the walk and met them, pulling Boyd’s other arm over her own shoulder. “No shit? Are you kidding me, Raylan?”

“You think I would about this?”

Her mouth twisted up and she asked, “What was he even doing there?”

“Hey, Helen,” Boyd said and lolled his head at her, smiling. Raylan gave her a look that hopefully said, don’t ask.

They were half carrying him now and they’d reached the steps up to the porch when Helen responded. “Hey, honey,” she said and smiled, reaching up to run fingers through the hair on the back of his head. Boyd leaned into the touch, eyes closing up like a barn cat for a rare hand. 

“What happened to you?” Helen asked as if Raylan hadn’t just said.

Boyd opened his eyes and grinned at her, leaning back into Raylan and almost toppling them both. “Raylan and I went for a drive.”

“Did you now?” She answered, grasping his arm in an attempt to keep him steady. “How was that?”

“Real nice. I thought he was mad, but he said he wasn’t. Then we talked for a long time.”

“You talked, you mean,” Raylan muttered and Helen barked out a laugh.

They finally came through the door, Helen holding it open and Raylan sort of pushing them both inside. “What’d you talk about, darlin’?” Helen asked before Raylan could shoot her a quelling look.

The living room was still all torn up from Boyd’s latest renovation. They weaved in and out of the various tools and materials Boyd had left strewn about the room, and over to the far wall, so Boyd could at least grab onto the bare studs as they made their way to the kitchen. 

Raylan badly wanted some kind of alcohol, brown, cold, and in a glass. He wasn’t going to be particular today.

Boyd answered Helen’s question after a long pause. Raylan had been hoping he’d forgotten or hadn’t heard her ask. He was walking now mostly by himself, leaning hard against the wall, with Raylan’s hand on the small of his back. Helen walked next to them keeping an eye out for shit on the floor where Boyd might stumble. “Just the boys at the mine, a little. And Daddy,” Boyd said.

Something sharp, an edge away from fear, entered Helen’s expression. “What about Bo?”

Before Raylan could get anything out this time, Boyd answered fast, stopping and turning to Helen so abruptly that they all halted right at the edge of the kitchen, just a few feet away from where the table was on the far side of the fridge, stove, and counters. He said, “Sent me a letter. Daddy did. He’s mad ‘cause Raylan an’ I ain’t supposed to love each other. But I don’t think I’m gonna stop, just ‘cause it’s what Bo wants. I don’t think Raylan will either, do you?”

The look on Helen’s face was quite a sight, caught somewhere between a hopeless smile and real concern for Boyd’s state. She glanced at Raylan, probably because it seemed as though Boyd had completely forgotten he was there, despite the fact that he still had his hand pressed firmly to his back. She looked back at Boyd and said, “No, I don’t think he will.”

Boyd took two steps further along the wall, and sort of slid down it and to the floor, smiling all the way. Raylan let him go, and leaned himself up against the doorway.

“Oh,” Boyd said a moment later, almost in passing, “and he wants me to come visit him.”

Helen’s hand was the only thing that stopped Raylan from whirling on Boyd, from reaching down and shaking him, asking why he’d kept all that from him, and for how long. She took a breath and shook her head. “Leave it for now. Don’t argue with him in this state,” she murmured quietly. “You gonna take him to a hospital?”

Raylan sighed. “Wouldn’t want me to. He ain’t full-time at the mine, Helen, and he can’t get on my insurance.”

“Then feed him. And have him drink at least two glasses of water, okay? Before he passes out.”

Raylan looked at her, then over at Boyd, whose hand had somehow traveled along the foot or so of baseboard between them, his fingers latched around Raylan’s boot. He turned back to Helen, eyebrows lifted.

She raised her eyes to the ceiling and threw up her hands. “Fine,” she said roughly and turned to the fridge. “You boys had better actually have food this time.”

“We were gonna cook out for you, remember?” Raylan replied and came around the doorway to Boyd, shaking off his hand gently, and kneeling down in front of him.

“He can’t eat no hot dogs or brats, Raylan. It’ll just come right back up,” she called back. “At least you’ve got some goddamn bread.”

Boyd was sitting in a sort of loose Indian-style up against the wall, one knee higher than the other, with his elbow propped up and his head resting on it. He looked up at Raylan and smiled real big. He reached his hands out to Raylan and Raylan took them, letting Boyd thread their fingers together and pull them down to press to the floor, so his face was up real close to Boyd’s.

“How you feelin’?” Raylan asked softly. 

“Okay, I guess,” he answered. “How are you?”

Raylan chuckled and leaned his forehead down, so it rested against Boyd’s, just for a second. Helen was busy for the moment anyway. “I’m tired, Boyd,” he said. “I’m pissed.”

“Not at me,” Boyd replied, at least remembering that much. He looked up at Raylan. “Right?”

Raylan’s mouth twisted, snagged between a smile and a grimace. “Not quite. And not now, anyway.”

Boyd seemed to consider that for a second and then nodded, as though deciding it was fair. Raylan couldn’t help but laugh as he reluctantly let go of Boyd’s hands and turned his back to the wall as well, sliding down to sit next to him.

Helen was standing at the counter, a hot dog bun in her hand, looking at Raylan with a strange expression on her face. When Raylan held out his hand for the bread, she visibly shook herself and walked over to give it to him. “You want a drink?” she asked.

“God in Heaven, Helen, I am so glad you asked,” Raylan answered. He broke off a piece of the bun and nudged Boyd up a little, from where he was leaning far into Raylan’s shoulder. “Eat that,” he said.

“Why?” Boyd asked dubiously. “It ain’t got no meat in it, Raylan.”

“Helen thinks that might make you sick. You probably skipped lunch again today, so you need somethin’ in your stomach, Boyd.” Raylan knew that when he was in town, Boyd would work through lunch sometimes, so he could punch out early.

“I don’t think I skipped lunch.”

“Yeah, but you don’t _know_ , do you?” Raylan put the bread in Boyd’s still filthy hand, figuring there was enough coal dust in his boy’s lungs, it wouldn’t hurt much to have some in his stomach too. He couldn’t imagine trying to get him hustled over to the sink and washed up, it wasn’t worth the effort. “Will you please just eat it?”

Boyd took it from him with a sigh and stuffed it in his mouth. Raylan smirked.

Helen came over and plunked a tumbler of something clear on the floor next to him. “What’d you pull that out for?” he asked as she sat down at the table opposite them and took a sip of her own ‘shine.

“To remind you of the good things that come outta this place,” she said with a spark in her eye. “Not everyone hates, Raylan. Most don’t care. Some might find it an oddity, like that woman, lives up the ridge with all those cats--”

“Thanks, Helen,” Raylan said, rolling his eyes as he handed Boyd another piece of the bun.

“What I mean is, not everyone in Harlan is a bitter old miner, or a gun thug with daddy issues.”

“So, you mean the women?” He cocked his head. “Really?”

Helen grinned like she had a secret, then replied, “Iris McCloud told me she thinks you boys look good together. And when the girl at the checkout, ah Bobby Ray Mooney’s daughter, realized what Iris meant by ‘together’ she blushed beet red and couldn’t stop giggling.”

Boyd leaned his head against Raylan’s shoulder and twisted a little, pressing his knees against Raylan’s thigh. Raylan handed him another piece of bread and just let his hand drop to cover Boyd’s knee. 

“Well, I’m real glad we’re so amusing to the ladies ‘round here, Helen,” he said, not able to hide the sarcasm.

“Raylan, you just be glad we ain’t livin’ thirty years ago, fifteen even. Then, you’d have a goddamn lynch mob at this door. Women included. All I’m sayin’ is, not everyone hates you. Sure there’s the ignorant and the damned baptists, but if you leave people alone, for the most part they’ll leave you. You just have to wait it out.”

“I hate waitin’,” Raylan muttered and Helen shook her head like she used to when he wouldn’t eat his vegetables.

Boyd stirred a little, but didn’t lift his head as he added, “That check out girl used t’give you the eyes all the time, Raylan. I thought I was gonna have to set her straight soon. M’glad Helen beat me to it.”

“Shut up, Boyd,” Raylan said affectionately and moved his hand slow up and down his leg, not caring too much about the coal dust. He heard the huff of Boyd’s smile and looked down to hand him the last bit of bread.

When he turned back to Helen, she was watching him, head tilted in a considering way.

“What?” Raylan asked at the strangeness of her stare.

Helen’s smile was soft, and there was something terribly fond in her eyes as she looked at them. Raylan felt sort of weird about it. “You two,” she said. “I ain’t never seen you boys touch each other before, like you’re doin’ right now. It’s lovely.”

Raylan looked away. It was true, maybe not the lovely part, he didn’t know what Helen was talking about with that, but Boyd and Raylan rarely touched each other when they were in company. They didn’t really know how. 

They’d never socialized as a couple, only really did it with Helen now, and Ava sometimes. The few occasions spouses or partners were called on for anything work related, they kept themselves stiff and not terribly public on some unspoken mutual agreement. They touched only elbows or brushed shoulders, and they always left very early. 

Art had told him once after the office summer picnic to just relax, they lived in the twenty-first century for God’s sake. Raylan remembered smiling like he didn’t believe him and saying something to change the subject.

“Knowing it in how he looks at you, and talks about you, and you for him, that’s one thing,” Helen continued, pausing to take a sip of the ‘shine. “Seeing it, right here in front of me,” she smiled and it was soft again, reminding Raylan now of his mother, so he couldn’t look away, “I’m just so glad for you, Raylan. You and him. He’s a... he’s a real good boy. I’ve known that for a long time.”

“Thank you, Helen,” Boyd said, like she’d just given him a present.

“You’re welcome, honey.”

 

Helen left after they’d force fed Boyd three full glasses of water and Raylan assured her he could get him up the stairs on his own. She gave each of them a kiss on the cheek, and Boyd another run through his messy hair and said, “Be good, boys,” with a laughing smile.

When the door closed behind her, Boyd took the opportunity to immediately press himself up against Raylan, drawing his lips against the side of Raylan’s mouth and teasing it open with surprising ease.

Raylan let Boyd make out with him for maybe a minute, taking care to not encourage too much, and making sure they both stayed upright, until Boyd pulled them back toward the table and sat himself up on it, dragging Raylan with him.

Raylan drew his lips away from Boyd, who huffed and frowned, only a little more exaggerated than when he was sober and he didn’t get what he wanted. “What am I gonna do with you now?” Raylan murmured.

“Whatever you want, baby,” Boyd said with a smile. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

Raylan smiled softly. He knew what Boyd meant, but he looked around this house, had been looking at it for months now, marvelling at how different it was, how differently he felt about it now that Boyd had come into it, transformed almost everything about it. All because it was what Raylan wanted, even if he hadn’t known that’s what he was asking.

It was a strange power to hold over someone. To know that if he asked Boyd to do something, if he needed something and didn’t even ask, Boyd would do it, would stop at nothing.

Boyd never asked for anything, never needed anything but what Raylan had already given. First the house, and then later, his loyalty, his heart, without even knowing.

It had been a terrible thing to wake up to, the morning after he told Boyd he loved him, to realize he had for so long and not known. Decisions were easy after that, but bearing the weight of them had taken him a little time to adjust and he knew he’d scared Boyd, making him wait like that, and then shocked him, at doing everything like it was nothing at all.

He’d never forget Boyd’s face, the day he came to help Raylan move, when everything finally got laid out, and revealed to Art as well. Raylan had never seen such a surprised and pleased expression on the man’s face. Nothing surprised Boyd, he was too smart for it, except for Raylan. And that was a feeling that brought out a particular sense of accomplishment in him.

He looked at Boyd, who’d begun listing a little, leaning his forehead to Raylan’s shoulder, pulling a little aimlessly at his shirt and sleeve. “You tired, darlin’?” he asked softly.

Boyd looked up at him, his smile growing slowly to a grin. “You ain’t never called me that before, Raylan.”

Raylan wasn’t really one for pet names, or hadn’t been anyway. He’d always felt like his relationship with Boyd, when he’d had the courage to think of it that way, didn’t fit into any set molds, where they called each other things other than their own names, and said “I love you,” once a day, like it was prayers before bed.

He’d always felt like they didn’t need that shit. But that first time, when he was moving toward making this place home again, when Boyd whispered “baby” to him as he slipped onto his lap in the front seat of his car, he’d felt it could maybe be something they liked, instead of something they needed.

Still, it had apparently taken Raylan six months and a terrifying drug-related incident to get him to reciprocate.

“Don’t get used to it,” Raylan said, before Boyd kissed him hard. And he felt a pang of regret that Boyd probably wouldn’t remember this either.

“I ain’t tired, Raylan,” Boyd whispered to Raylan’s lips, pulling his shirt from his waistband and sliding a hand up his chest.

Raylan started moving them toward the stairs, knowing they were gonna need to get up there eventually. “I figured.”

It ended up being easier to get Boyd upstairs than he’d thought. The man was on a mission to get into Raylan’s pants, and seemed to have picked up on the idea that the sooner they ascended the steps, the faster he’d get that accomplished. 

Pushing and pulling each other into their bedroom was now a matter of routine, something like muscle memory. So Boyd handled it fairly well, all things considered, until they were both sprawled out on the bed, and Boyd was on top, working away at Raylan’s belt, taking a lot longer than usual with it.

“Hey, hey,” Raylan said, pushing Boyd’s hands gently off him. “Hold up, Boyd.”

“What?” He asked, drawing his knees up under him to straddle Raylan. “We’re alone now, baby. I want--”

“Maybe not tonight, okay?” 

Raylan knew the look in Boyd’s eye, even with the fog of the drugs cast over it, he didn’t want to just mess around. But Raylan wasn’t certain, with that shit in Boyd’s system, if he was too desensitized to get off. 

He couldn’t bear the idea of fucking him without some reciprocation of feeling, it was disturbingly close to the kind of abuse those drugs were used for, the kind of thing that very well may have happened to Boyd if he hadn’t called Raylan, if Raylan hadn't been so close by. 

Boyd stared at him, his face flushed, his shoulders sagging like a slashed tire deflating.

“Let’s just go to bed,” Raylan said, even though it was early for them, and tried to smile in the face of Boyd’s wounded look.

He undressed them, and Boyd let him, not fighting at all with tangled sleeves and awkward pant legs. They got coal dust all over the floor and the bedspread, but Raylan was far from caring and Boyd didn’t seem to notice.

Boyd just kept looking at him with this sad, thoughtful expression and Raylan couldn’t bring himself to say anything because he figured it was something they could just talk about later, if Boyd happened to remember. He was tired of having to talk through the fog, to have to fight to reason with his usually so reasonable boy.

Finally they were in their boxers, and Raylan had his back turned to the chest of drawers along the wall facing their bed where Boyd sat. Raylan was laying his watch down and arranging his wallet and side arm for easy reach, when Boyd said quietly, “I’m sorry.” 

“What the hell for?” 

“I love you,” Boyd replied, like he meant it, like Raylan didn’t know.

“Yeah?” Raylan turned to him and frowned. He looked gloriously disheveled, but the pain in his eyes was something Raylan was unprepared for. “Boyd, what is the matter?”

“I don’t say it enough, Raylan,” he said. “Ever since you said... and then everything happened and you seemed to know, so I thought that I wouldn’t need to so much because--”

Raylan moved forward, reaching for Boyd’s cheek, smoothing a hand through his hair. “You don’t need to. I know, Boyd.”

Boyd had said those words, at least once that Raylan could clearly remember. When they’d got all Raylan’s shit inside the house, arranged the way they both wanted it, and Boyd was still smiling so big, Raylan thought his face might split open. 

They’d come up the stairs just like they had tonight, just like they had so many times before. But that night it felt different and they’d screwed for hours, desperate and hungry for each other in a way they hadn’t been for a while. The second time that night that Raylan made Boyd come, he’d moaned out loud, “Goddamn, Raylan, I love you so much. _Fuck_ ,” and Raylan had laughed, because, even then, he already knew.

Raylan knew it because of the house, and he told Boyd so. “It’s here,” he said. “In every room, Boyd. And it’s in your eyes and your hands. Your smile. I see it all the damn time, darlin’. Don’t, for a second, think that I don’t.” 

Raylan understood, too, that Boyd didn’t. Not really. It was whatever was running through his veins, messing with his head, that let that uncertainty in, burrowing doubt deeper than truth. If Boyd really thought he needed to say it more, he would. He’d say it every day.

But still, Raylan smiled and assured him, “You don’t have to say it. Not to me. You know that.” 

He climbed up on Boyd’s lap, though it was something he rarely did, a position that Boyd seemed to prefer to take when they were together. He seized Boyd’s face in his hands and kissed him, long and open-mouthed, making big, long strokes with his tongue, letting Boyd’s move sweetly against his.

“I want to,” Boyd said, pulling him closer. “I love you.” Then he said it again, and again, and again, while Raylan kissed his way down his neck and collarbone.

It was intoxicating, hearing Boyd say that like a mantra, like a prayer, and they rocked together, moving skin against skin, flesh against flesh, making a battle of their lips and tongues. Boyd hooked Raylan’s lower lip with his teeth, then sucked it in apology. His smile was sweet and wide, his eyes crinkled when they weren’t closed against Raylan’s attentions.

He said, “I love you,” again and Raylan parroted it back to him, breathlessly searching for his cock. When Raylan’s hand slid inside Boyd’s boxers he found things a little more limp than he was expecting. “Shit,” he muttered. He’d almost forgotten, with Boyd’s hands roaming all over him, his concerns about Boyd’s ability to get it up. It was too much to hope that whatever it was would be wearing off by now.

Boyd didn’t seem to notice, he twisted around, pushing Raylan down onto the bed and climbing on top himself. “Raylan,” he said each word between kisses, between deep breaths and long exhales, “I want... fuck me, please, Raylan.”

Raylan didn’t know where this desire was coming from, because as he stroked a few more times up and down Boyd’s cock, he was barely hard. He was responding to the pressure of Raylan’s hands and lips, knowing what to do, what he wanted, without feeling it. 

Raylan had been numb drunk before, even once with Boyd. All they’d been able to do was make out like teenagers before they passed out on each other. He wasn’t about to use Boyd in this situation, in no world would that ever be okay.

He made himself smile into Boyd’s kiss. “You know,” he said, looking up into Boyd’s eyes, still blown wide open. “You know what I want, Boyd?”

Boyd smiled, like all he wanted in the world was to hear what Raylan had to say. “What?”

“Will you suck me off, Boyd? Will you,” he paused and his breath hitched because Boyd was already moving down his body, trailing his lips across Raylan’s hips, pulling his underwear down roughly. “Will you put your mouth on me? Do you want to...?”

The more Raylan had asked for it, the harder he got, the more he wanted it. Boyd seemed happy to accommodate him, looking up at Raylan with a pleased twinkle in his eyes and smoothing his fingers along Raylan’s inner thighs.

“Yes,” he said, drawing Raylan’s legs apart and dipping his head to take him in, full-tilt, in one haphazard swallow.

His technique was not at its peak, to say the least, but he made up for it in enthusiasm and Raylan felt his smile stretch into a pleasurable grin. After Boyd really got going, squeezing maybe a little too tight at the base as he sucked, Raylan stopped thinking about what he was and wasn’t doing right because it was so goddamn good, he could barely think of anything at all. 

Raylan figured he probably didn’t need to admit to Boyd anytime soon that he didn’t exactly remember much after he came with a booming yell and felt Boyd, come-covered and smiling, climbing back up to kiss him, sloppy and satisfied.

 

Raylan woke hours later to the sound of Boyd being sick in the bathroom. It was the dry, hollow sound of an empty stomach turning itself over and over again. Raylan swung his legs over the side of the bed, not bothering to put on any clothes. The night was still as warm as it had been earlier. 

He padded over to the bathroom and saw Boyd leaning pathetically against the porcelain bowl. He looked up from the murky water, filled with nothing but yellow bile, more anger than confusion on his face.

“Raylan,” he said slowly. “I’m having a little difficulty puzzling out... just why you would let me drink so much...”

His pupils were no longer so dilated as to be black, and the vagueness was gone from his expression. Boyd was not smiling, but somehow, Raylan felt better.

“I didn’t,” he answered, going to the sink for a glass of water. “You didn’t, either.”

Boyd spat into the bowl, probably fighting another wave of nausea. “Then what did I eat and why isn’t it floating in this fucking toilet?”

Raylan set the glass down on the floor next to Boyd and sat himself down in the small space between the commode and the corner. The tiles on the floor, the wall at his back and the smooth white porcelain were cool to his skin, he was glad of at least that for Boyd.

“I’ll tell you later,” Raylan assured him, offering a wan smile. He leaned his head up against the toilet, pressing his temple to the coolness of the tank and the water inside. 

He watched Boyd look at him, and say, “I can’t remember anything after coming up from the mine.” He said this very slowly, like he wasn’t sure Raylan would believe him.

“I know,” Raylan replied. Feeling exhaustion weigh him down like a sodden blanket, he closed his eyes for a second and opened them again when he heard the sound of Boyd retching.

Raylan let his hand drop forward and reached out to draw his fingers through the hair at the crown of Boyd’s head, as he bent it low and his stomach heaved. Boyd’s hair was getting long again, sticking up all the time in every direction. Raylan liked it both ways, long and short, so he never told Boyd to cut it.

“Drink the water, Boyd,” he said. “At least you’ll have something else to throw up.”

“Thank you for the expert advice, Raylan,” Boyd replied. His labored breath didn’t really hide the sarcasm as he lifted his head.

Raylan’s fingers twisted a little through Boyd’s hair and he sighed, “I’m just trying to help.” Like he had been all night.

Boyd sat up enough that Raylan’s hand slipped from his head. He picked up the glass with a look that said he knew, but just couldn’t say thank you at the moment. So Raylan smiled and closed his eyes again. He was fucking tired and Art expected him in Lexington at 9:00 am.

“Raylan, I’m gonna need you to tell me what happened.” Boyd was sounding more and more like himself now, and Raylan pressed his hands to his face.

“I won’t do it with that glass in your hand,” he said.

Boyd set it down. “You think I’m gonna throw things?”

“You gonna be sick again?” Raylan’s back was starting to ache against the flat, hard wall, and he longed for the comfort, though maybe not the heat, of their bed. 

“I suppose it depends on your story,” Boyd replied with an edge to his voice and a clarity in his eyes that hadn’t been there even a few minutes before. 

Raylan realized he wasn’t being fair. If Boyd was recovered, he didn’t need to censor the information any longer, didn’t need to protect him from the knowledge, however much he’d still have liked to.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, then amended, “Well, you must be. But, can you eat? I’ll make us breakfast.”

Boyd sighed and flushed the toilet. “Perhaps I could. But isn’t it a little early?”

“I have to leave in two hours,” Raylan replied as he got up.

“Shit.”

Raylan dressed quickly, just throwing his tie around his neck and leaving his shirt unbuttoned as Boyd rinsed off in the shower. He went downstairs to the kitchen and started some eggs, deciding to wait and see if Boyd was up for bacon.

When he came down, Raylan saw that Boyd hadn’t bothered dressing himself, besides sliding on a pair of old, torn-up jeans, the kind of clothes he wouldn’t be caught dead wearing in public, but that he let Raylan see him in if he was in a particular mood. 

His chest was bare, showing the old, black swastika tattoo in stark relief against the too-pale pallor of his shoulder. There was a hard edge to his eyes and his lips were drawn in a displeased line that took Raylan back for a quick second to the early days when they’d come together again, when Boyd’s demeanor was darker and subtly threatening, and Raylan couldn’t talk to him about what he did with his time.

It wasn’t that Raylan was disgusted by the tattoo, it often didn’t even register for him any longer when they were together in the dark or even in the day, it was just a part of him. When it was paired with that look though, it made Raylan stand straighter, his hand feeling an itch for the sidearm that wasn’t there. And it made him fucking crazy, that Boyd could provoke that feeling in him and that he would like it, miss it even, when he hadn’t seen it for a while.

This time, he hadn’t seen it since the night Ava stayed over and brought all this to their doorstep.

Boyd stopped in the middle of his walk across the room. “What?”

Raylan realized he was staring and something must have given him away, like it always did with Boyd, because his lips quirked and he held himself just a little differently, shifted like he knew he was being watched and he sauntered over to the table, pulled out a chair and spun it around to sit on it backwards. “I can’t believe we don’t fight more, Raylan. Since we both love it so much when the other’s pissed off.”

Raylan rolled his eyes and flipped over the eggs. “Shoulda seen me yesterday then,” he said, his stomach tightening as he thought about what happened in the puddle.

“Didn’t I?” Boyd raised his eyebrows.

“Does it count if you don’t remember?” Raylan pulled out two plates from the cupboard in front of him and dumped half the eggs on each.

Boyd squinted at him, taking the fork and plate Raylan passed over, his eyes moved like he was searching for something and he said hesitantly, “I called you and you came. And you... pulled your gun but... didn’t shoot it.” He paused and shook his head, like he might shake loose something else from yesterday. Raylan wanted to tell him to stop that, but he couldn’t when Boyd looked at him again, something like fear in his eyes. “Raylan, you have got to tell me what happened.”

Raylan took a breath, suddenly he deciding he wasn’t that hungry. “Well, I don’t exactly know what went down before you called me, but near as I can tell,” he began, and went through it, from what he assumed had happened after shift at the mine, to when Boyd had called him, how he sounded, what he said, to what happened inside Audrey’s.

“They wanted to fuck with you, to get you to... I don’t know... prove something to them, I guess.”

“I get the idea,” Boyd said flatly. 

“I told them if they went near us again I’d put them in jail or you’d kill them.” Raylan finished feeling drained, wrung out. “Then I took you home and babysat you ‘til you passed out.”

Boyd wiped a hand over his eyes, looking similarly shaken. “Why?” he asked. “Why would you tell them that?”

“Seemed like they’d believe it. And, I thought you might want to.” Raylan looked away, then forced himself to look back, hard and honestly at Boyd. “Like I do.”

“Would you stop me if I did?” There was that dark something again, in Boyd’s tone. 

Raylan knew it had been bred in them both, raised up in Boyd by his daddy, beaten down and ground in by Arlo, and they’d been fighting it for a long time. “I don’t know,” Raylan said. “Maybe not for that.” He was okay with turning a blind eye, he’d accepted that a long time ago and done it, until Boyd had been kind enough to draw himself away from all that, for Raylan. But he could see himself do it again over something like this, something worse. He could let Boyd do what he wanted, then.

“We have to be careful,” Boyd said, and put his hand over Raylan’s. It was shaking, and Raylan pulled their fingers together to still them. “We’ll be careful, so that doesn’t happen. So they can’t touch us.”

“You’re gonna do something,” Raylan said. “To warn them off. It won’t be enough for just me to say it. The law won’t scare them like you will.”

There was something deep in Boyd’s eyes, but they betrayed no emotion at all when he replied, “Maybe.”

It wasn’t anything like a real agreement, and Raylan knew both of them would not speak of it again, as their fingers tangled together. There was a line he would have to draw, a decision to make, if Boyd wasn’t careful enough. They both knew it. There lay the promise and as much truth as they could give each other.

Raylan remembered what else he had to say. “Boyd,” he began and they both knew the warning that was in his voice. “When did you get that letter from Bo?”

Boyd froze and he snatched his hand back, spitting out a “Goddammit,” and standing up fast from the table. He took two paces away from Raylan, his back turned and he stopped, shoulders hunching, muscles taut, ready to lash out. 

“How long were you gonna wait to tell me?” Raylan pressed, feeling the anger he’d tamped down on yesterday, when Boyd couldn’t defend himself, when he’d actually come clean. 

When Boyd didn’t answer, Raylan asked again. “ _How long_ , Boyd?”

Boyd turned back to him. “I only received it yesterday.. no two mornings ago, early, before I left for that fuckin’ shift, Raylan. Remember we forgot the mail? I pulled it out on my way down the hill, read it at lunch. I was going to tell you. I... presume that I did, then.”

“Told Helen, too.” Raylan took a calming breath. There was no reason not to believe him. Boyd and him, they didn’t lie to each other unless they were lying to themselves as well.

Boyd dragged his hand through his hair. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, like he was thinking of coming back to the table. “Bet she didn’t like to hear that news.”

Raylan smiled. “Actually, you were funny about it. In retrospect. Though, no, she wasn’t too happy.” Raylan didn’t say he hadn’t been either. Boyd knew that.

Boyd crooked an eyebrow. “Funny how?”

“You told her you weren’t going to stop lovin’ me, just because it’s what Bo wants.”

He laughed when Boyd flushed red, drawing a finger across his brow and casting his eyes aside.

“Hey,” Raylan said, pulling his eggs back in front of him, and pushing Boyd’s up across the table. Boyd sat back down again and Raylan continued, “Come on. It’s true, right?”

Boyd worked his jaw and looked at Raylan like he was deciding whether or not to be pissed at him. “That it is,” he finally sighed, and stuck his fork into his eggs. “My stomach feels all shrivelled up,” he complained as he stared at the food.

“Put something in it, then,” Raylan said.

“You know, Raylan, while I do occasionally enjoy the times that you take charge like this, could you maybe back off, just a little?” Boyd said, then finally took a bite of the eggs.

Raylan grimaced. “Sorry. Must have got in the habit yesterday, herding you around.”

Boyd looked at him, chewing slowly. “How long you gonna hold over my head all this shit I can’t remember?”

Raylan shrugged. “You’d rather I were pissed about it? ‘Stead of finding it so goddamn funny?”

“You are pissed about it.”

“So are you. I’m trying not to act like I’m pissed, ‘cause I’m pretty sure that won’t help me or you.” Raylan didn’t know why they were fighting about this and, from the look on Boyd’s face, neither did he.

“Well, forgive me if I take a little longer than you this morning to get used to the reality that my coworkers were so hung up on my alternative lifestyle, they thought dosing me with some kind of date-rape drug would be the height of entertainment.” He seemed to be trying to calm himself down, taking deep breaths, but they only came faster, like he couldn’t stop them coming.

“Boyd,” Raylan began, becoming concerned. But Boyd stood suddenly from the table, turned on his heel and rushed up the stairs. “Shit,” he said, hearing Boyd lose what little he’d just put in his stomach as he glanced down at his watch.

He made a quick phone call before climbing the stairs after Boyd.

Raylan knew instinctively that Boyd would not as easily accept the comfort he’d taken earlier that morning, not after their anger-fueled discussion. So he leaned against the door frame to the bathroom and looked down at his boots while Boyd heaved and coughed, spat and swore into the toilet. 

He pretended not to hear the weak-voiced whines followed by darkly muttered death threats. Raylan knew Boyd wouldn’t really kill over this, no matter how much they both wanted to.

He let Boyd get himself a glass of water this time and moved out of the way, when he finally left the bathroom, walking slowly, but steadily, to the bed. Boyd sat down on it and caught Raylan’s eye, seeing and accepting the worry there, the real concern. “Come here,” he said and Raylan went.

He pulled Boyd’s feet up onto the bed, scooted him over so he could climb in and lay his body down spooned right up next to each other. Boyd’s bare back was smooth against Raylan’s chest and his breath skated over the skin and thin fabric of his undershirt, causing goose flesh to raise up at his neck and Boyd to suppress a shiver.

They just breathed together for a few short minutes, until Boyd asked, “Raylan, did we fool around last night?”

“You accusing me of taking advantage?” Raylan smiled, pressing his lips to Boyd’s neck and letting him feel it stretch across his face.

Boyd twisted around in Raylan’s arms so they could look at each other and shrugged, with more uncertainty in his expression than Raylan was used to seeing. “I just have this feeling...”

“I let you give me a BJ, okay?” 

“Let me?” And there was a barb of that famous pride.

Raylan laughed, drawing soothing hands up and down Boyd’s arms, “You were real insistent. I thought it might hurt your feelings, if I said no.”

“Well, how was it?”

“Little messy, maybe. I got off, though. You seemed pleased.”

Boyd huffed. “Raylan, who do you think you’re talking to? I don’t give any messy goddamn head.”

“Maybe you do when you’re fuckin’ high as a kite. Helen thought it was adorable.” Raylan smirked. 

“The head?”

“Shut up. You know what I mean.” Raylan kissed Boyd on the forehead then smiled when he pulled a face.

“Quit babying me,” he protested. 

“Quit acting like a baby,” Raylan replied.

Boyd turned over in response and Raylan didn’t stop him. They laid there together for a while, and while Raylan used the time to doze a little, catching some more rest before he had to hit the road, he could tell Boyd wasn’t sleeping. He was holding himself too stiff.

Maybe twenty minutes later, Raylan rolled away and left the bed, perfectly aware that Boyd still hadn’t fallen asleep. He brushed his teeth quickly, buttoned up his shirt and put on his tie properly. He was throwing a couple things into his overnight bag when he broke the silence they’d laid on each other.

“I called Art before. Told him I might be in late. I don’t have to go, Boyd. I can stay here, if you want. I got PTO racked up. I can take a day.”

“Don’t bother,” Boyd replied heavily after a moment. 

Raylan turned and watched him roll over. Their eyes met in the dim light of the early morning. “I’ll see you Friday, then.”

Boyd lifted his head. “You got a lot going on this week?”

“Prisoner transports. There’s a shake up, up at Eastern Kentucky Correctional. They don’t want overcrowding.”

Boyd nodded and twisted a little in the sheets, the jeans he hadn’t bothered to remove must have been uncomfortable. “Kick one in the teeth for me, okay?” he asked.

Raylan tilted his head. “Sure. Do you mind if I ask why?”

Boyd rolled over and away from him, grumbling to the wall. “Whichever one you pick, he probably hates us, too.”

Raylan walked swiftly over to the bed, knelt down next to it, and put his hand to the soft small hairs at the back of Boyd’s neck. “Hey, the way I figure, you got a right to a certain amount of bitterness about this whole business, Boyd. But, _I_ love you, okay? And you gave me about five years of back-pay on that sentiment just last night. So don’t you go thinkin’ on me now that anybody else’s opinion factors into this equation, ever.”

Boyd rolled back over and looked Raylan right in the eyes for a long time. “Can we just chalk this whole conversation... and my behavior this morning, up to the hangover, Raylan?”

“Sure can,” he smiled. “I’m gonna leave now, okay?”

Boyd huffed. “You can just say you’re worried.”

They didn’t always kiss goodbye when Raylan drove back up to Lexington. He figured it wasn’t really them, and Boyd had never complained. But today, he leaned down and planted one on Boyd’s thinned, dry lips. “No, I can’t,” he said quietly. “You know me.”

Boyd smiled, let his hand run down Raylan’s arm. “I do. I’ll see you Friday, baby.”

“See you soon.” Raylan squeezed his hand, just once, real quick, before he let go.

 

Weeks later, Raylan was interrupted from some truly engrossing paperwork by Art, staring at him with a newspaper folded under his arm.

“Hey, Art,” Raylan said quizzically.

Art tossed the paper on Raylan’s desk and said, “I assume you’d tell me if something happened to Boyd, or if he were in some kind of trouble.”

Raylan leaned over to peer at the paper, the headline in question was on the side of the front page, not quite top story. There had been a collapse at the Plackett mine, outside Harlan, the one where Boyd spent his nights and days, just yesterday.

Raylan looked up at Art, forcing a reassuring smile, and answered, “Trouble I don’t know about, Art, but no one called me to say he’s died or is in a hospital bed, so I assume Boyd is fine. We didn’t talk last night.”

He looked back down to read further. The collapse was caused by some faulty powder, no one was hurt, and only three men were trapped for more than a few minutes. They’d been dug out several hours later. “Shit,” Raylan muttered, scanning the names of the three men.

“What?”

Raylan was mostly terrible at hiding things from Art, he’d long ago decided not to think about why, so he sort of looked away and made a grab for his hat, badge, and holster. “Nothing, just almost forgot my meeting with that new CI. I gotta go, Art.” He picked himself up and was on his way out the door was he waved, calling, “Thanks for your concern, and the heads up.” He turned and smiled for real, “I’ll tell Boyd you were worried.”

Art threw Raylan a look that said it wasn’t Boyd he was worried about, but Raylan ignored it. Art had been quietly on the fence about Boyd, though he’d never said that in so many words, ever since he did some digging and came up with the man’s name connected to those white supremacy groups and Bo Crowder, who was still a big deal despite his long tenure inside.

Raylan knew Art thought it wasn’t a great idea for him to be so thoroughly tangled up in Boyd’s affairs, but since Boyd himself had never been convicted of anything and had only ever spent two nights in jail on a charge for which he’d later been exonerated, they both knew he hadn’t a leg to stand on in a real argument on the matter. And, really, it wasn’t exactly any of his damn business, though Raylan sort of liked that he thought it was.

“You’ll be in Harlan, then?” Art called after him.

“Yeah, after this meeting, I’ll be off the clock. Back in on Monday,” he said with a smile. “Scout’s honor.”

“Raylan, I know for a fact you weren’t ever no goddamned boy scout.”

He heard Rachel laugh out loud from behind her desk. The door closed behind him before Art could tell her what he thought of that.

 

Raylan spent the entire ride down to Harlan thinking about what exactly he was going to ask Boyd when he saw him. He went through a few different scenarios, hating all of them, and feeling like anything he said would either end with a fight or with Raylan knowing more than he cared to about the entire affair.

He found himself thinking of the first time he came back to Arlo’s house, after Boyd moved in, when he’d still been telling himself Boyd was someone he could walk away from, that all it was and was ever going to be was some excellent sex with a very old, very dangerous friend.

Though it was early, the sun was sinking fast behind the hills when he’d come into the quiet, darkened house, wondering if Boyd was in fact there. He didn’t call out for him, feeling wary and unsure, so he walked through the first floor and, finding it empty, climbed the stairs.

The hallway was dark, though some light came through from an open doorway, where Boyd stood, barefoot and shirtless with a gun in his hand.

Boyd lowered the weapon just as Raylan got his hand on his side arm, so he didn’t draw. Boyd’s eyes were wary too, but also tired, like Raylan’s arrival had woken him. He noticed the door Boyd was standing in was the one to his old room, where they had spent the night the last time he’d been there.

“You expecting someone, Boyd?” Raylan asked.

“Would have been expectin’ you, had you called ahead,” Boyd said, his voice rough from sleep, his lips on their way to a smile. 

“How long ago did you move in?”

Boyd replied as he stuffed the piece in the back of his jeans, “Few weeks. Started back up at the mine just Monday. They got me on nights.” 

Raylan was struck by how swiftly the boy had made that change. Raylan hadn’t even asked him to get a real job. He’d just done it. But it made him wonder who else would be just as surprised.

Raylan frowned at him. “Tell me you still have a toe in, Boyd. It’s suicide to just walk away.”

“Do you really want to know?” Boyd’s expression revealed nothing.

Raylan didn’t reply immediately, not feeling like he could say that all he really wanted to know was that Boyd was being safe. “I shouldn’t,” he said.

“I’ll be careful, Raylan,” Boyd said, as if he knew, and walked forward to meet him.

 

That conversation had set the tone for how they communicated sensitive information for the rest of their relationship. 

Just recently, with Raylan’s move back to Kentucky, they’d grown past tiptoeing around every single fight, but this was the first time anything illegal, or close to it, had come near them in a few years’ time. So Raylan wasn’t quite sure how to handle it.

When he got home, Raylan found Boyd sitting alone on the back porch, hunched over his knees with a beer in his hand. He was facing away from the door as Raylan walked through it, looking out towards the hills. 

Raylan came up behind him and, without thinking at all, just letting the first push of desire prompt his muscles into action, sunk his fingers to Boyd’s hair.

Boyd leaned into the touch, letting his head fall to rest against Raylan’s thigh, as if he’d been waiting all day for him to do that. 

They stayed that way for several minutes, until Raylan finally spoke. “Heard there was trouble at the mine. Art saw it in the paper.”

Boyd reached up to hand Raylan the beer. Raylan took it without comment and was taking a swig when Boyd replied, very softly, “Should have seen that the labels had been obscured. Got rubbed off in transport, I suppose. Lucky no one was hurt.”

“Lucky,” Raylan muttered into the bottle, knowing it was no such thing.

Boyd turned his forehead, rubbing it against the fabric of Raylan’s jeans. “I’m anticipating fewer hours for the next few months. And,” he paused, for longer than Raylan liked. “I’ll be going to visit Daddy tomorrow.”

Boyd had all his ducks in quite a little row, Raylan thought. “Do you want me to go with you?”

“No.” Boyd pulled away and looked up at him. His eyes were hard and certain. He took his beer back from Raylan’s loose grip.

“I’ll drive you then. Wait outside.” It wasn’t really a question.

“All right, Raylan.”


	3. Brace This Door, Lest It Be Broken Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In chapter three, prison visits, car bombs, and sawed-off shotguns. Basically, Boyd and Raylan have a shitty weekend. Boyd especially.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to beta and ridiculous hand-holder, thornfield_girl, as well as alternate betas rillalicious and engage_protocol. You ladies are the best. <3

This was not the first time Boyd had visited his daddy in prison.

As he walked the long hallway, hands held firmly in the pockets of his wool coat, buttoned tight, though not against the cold, he remembered when Bo was in minimum security on a charge of assault and battery. He and Bowman had been teenagers.

It had been a different prison, but to Boyd they all looked the same, dingy white walls and metal bars, the doors that close behind you with a clang and a buzz before the next can be opened, the heavy kind that will snap off your fingers instead of just breaking them if they were to get caught.

Bowman had been young, twelve or thirteen, and his eyes were wide and scared as they’d walked through to the little booth where they waited for Daddy. It was the last time Boyd remembered holding his brother’s hand for any length of time, for any amount of comfort.

Bo had seen through the glass at their fingers clinging together as they sat beside each other on one chair and faced him. He told them harshly not to be such fucking pussies. It was Bowman that let go.

Boyd kept his hands in his pockets and told himself not to wish Raylan was there. Raylan knew all about prisons. He spent half his day coming in and out of them sometimes, or so he complained. Boyd had left him outside, waiting by the car in the wind and the chilly September air.

The guard he walked behind was a young kid, with a baby face to go along with his blond hair and blue eyes. The ring on his finger said he had a wife, and Boyd hoped he didn’t bring any of the shit he saw in this place back home to his woman and whatever beautiful children they might have together. 

As a kid, hanging around his daddy’s place of business, he’d seen too many prison guards fall into the kind of work Bo Crowder often needed from men with that skill set. They almost never lasted. The most expendable of all outlaws were those who once worked within the law. Bo always said you could never trust them not to snitch.

“End of the row,” Baby-face told Boyd flatly as they came into the visitor’s room. 

He walked down by himself, taking in the nauseatingly green walls and the cold steel surface of the bench and table where he sat down. There was a handprint on the glass in front of him, pressed there by a large palm, as though the man had been reaching out to someone who would not reciprocate. Boyd felt sick.

He had less than half a minute to collect himself before he heard the sound of the door on the opposite side opening up for Bo.

Boyd’s daddy wore the orange jumpsuit every other inmate was required to wear and his hair was longer than Boyd knew he liked to keep it. He had his business face on and Boyd put steel into his own eyes, realizing there wasn’t going to be a smiling reunion before they got down to why Bo had called him there.

He held himself straight-backed in that cold chair and waited until Bo picked up the phone before he reached for his.

Bo didn’t speak right away, so Boyd greeted him, “Hello, Daddy.”

“Son,” he said and looked to be considering Boyd before he asked a simple, crushing question. “Why is it that you feel you have to break your father’s heart?”

Boyd felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. With years away from the big man, with miles between them here at the prison, and even before when they just stopped running in the same circles, he’d forgotten this is how Bo was.

Every play Bowman had ever made in high school, every scheme Boyd successfully pulled off, was seen as a gift from them to him, while every failure was a personal affront. Bo Crowder met disappointment with the assumption that the emotional fallout was was meant just to hurt him and only him.

Of course Bo would see this as something Boyd had done to him, and not for himself, or even for Raylan.

Boyd swallowed from a dry throat, fighting back the first, instinctive impulse to apologize, to say he’d never do it again, and replied, “Whatever I have done, Daddy, you must believe me when I say my intent was not to hurt anyone. You especially.”

Bo laughed. It was hard and harsh, but Boyd stopped himself from wincing. “Whatever you’ve done. Whatever you’ve _done_?” He leaned forward and pressed his knuckles to the glass. Boyd didn’t move. “Boyd. Tell me you haven’t done the things your brother, the things half my goddamn county, have been saying you’ve done and we’ll stop this talk right now. I am ready for you to tell me it’s all lies. Go on.”

“I can’t, Daddy. Unless what you want is more lies.”

Bo’s eyes were terrifying for just a moment, a flash of pure anger and disgust. Then he shook his head. “Tell me then, that you’ve got a plan for the good Marshal. That you’re playing a long game and he’ll get a bullet the day you leave that house.”

“Daddy, no,” Boyd said then took a breath, afraid to betray how tight this was winding him up. “There is no long game. I live with Raylan because I want to. I moved into that house because he asked. If he gets a bullet when I’m on my way out, it’ll be because I caught one, too.”

Bo slammed his knuckles on the glass, like he was trying to shatter it and Boyd fought not to jump back. He may have flinched and he saw that victory in his father’s eyes. He glanced down at the guard at the end of the room, knowing that this kind of behavior was not encouraged. 

It was Baby-face, standing at dispassionate attention in an otherwise empty room. Boyd hadn’t wondered before why no one else was there visiting, but he quickly realized the guard he’d been giving his good wishes to was already on Bo’s payroll.

“Son,” Bo said quietly, as if he’d not just been moved to such forceful anger, “this... this I cannot abide. In any other instance, I would appreciate your honesty, but today I wish you had lied to me. You will fix this and you will do so before I am released from this sentence. There is no way under God that I can allow you to besmirch my name and the proud legacy of this family with your fucking faggotry. Do you understand me?”

Boyd knew he could not reason with him, but he felt compelled to speak. “Daddy, this is not and never has been about you or the family--”

Bo pounded on the glass again and roared at him, “It is, you little shit. Everything you do comes down on this family, everything you build supports it. Did you learn nothing from what I’ve done for us?”

Boyd did not break his gaze from Bo’s, heated and fearless. He replied steadily, “All that I learned is how to make a fortune off the backs of dead men and where it gets you in the end, Daddy. That’s not the kind of life that I want anymore. I’ve kept my code and your secrets as well as my own. I believe at this point, with your disgust for the choices I’ve made, that is all you can rightfully ask of me. Come find me, when you leave here, as you please. We’ll be ready.”

Boyd hung up the phone, now warm from his hand and his breath, and stood slowly, walking back down that row of tables and benches and big black telephones to the echoing rhythm of his father’s hand against that dirty glass.

He stuck his hands back in his pockets and spoke softly as the guard opened the door in front of him. “You should transfer, son. Get out of state before he’s released. You’ll get buried under all the lies before he finally puts you in the ground.”

 

Boyd was glad he couldn’t see the look on his face when he came out of that prison. By the expression on Raylan’s it was not pretty. 

He felt drained, wrung out, and wildly frayed at the nerves. But at the bottom of all that thin, airless, emptiness there was a white hot little ember of anger, stoked by outrage and helplessness, breathed to life by the nearing presence of Raylan as Boyd approached him from the empty yard.

Raylan had come up to the chain link fence, was leaning hard against it, casting his eyes back at Boyd as each subsequent gate opened for him. He watched Boyd approach with his fingers caught up in the chain, straining like he wanted to tear it down to get at him faster.

When the last gate did open, Raylan stepped forward, but not so far that he was in Boyd’s space. Something in his eyes must have held Raylan back, but Boyd wished it wasn’t there and took the last step himself. 

He pressed up close to Raylan, drawing in a deep breath and his hands up to either side of his face, brushing their foreheads and noses together, just lightly. Raylan let him make all the moves, standing very still, as if he were about to spook, and touching him softly only on his shoulder, his waist. And that was fine, for now.

“Okay, Boyd?” he asked quietly. Boyd’s eyes were closed, so he couldn’t see his face.

“I want you,” he replied slowly, “to take me home and put your hands all over me. Make me yours tonight, Raylan, because the Lord knows I ain’t no one else’s now.”

“Jesus, Boyd,” Raylan breathed, but he didn’t say anything else after that because Boyd was kissing him.

Moments later, they were interrupted by the rhythmic buzz of Raylan’s phone in his pocket. Boyd put a smile on his lips. “Why, Raylan,” he began, but Raylan pulled away, fishing the phone out and opening it with a glare that said, don’t you dare finish that sentence.

“Art,” he said, keeping one hand on Boyd’s waist, twirling two fingers through one of the loops at Boyd’s belt. “Now’s not really a good time.”

Boyd watched as Raylan’s boss spoke to him over the line, and he saw Raylan’s frown grow to a frustrated scowl. “Yeah, I remember you said I’d be on call but--”

“Well, no, I’m not in Harlan. I’m at Little Sandy--personal business.” Boyd was sure Art just loved that response. “Why can’t--” he paused, listening through a lengthy explanation, then sighing heavily. “Fine, I’m on my way. But I want an extra day this weekend. And Art, Boyd’s coming too.”

Boyd tilted his head at Raylan and asked quietly, “Where are we going?”

Raylan must have seen yet another thing he didn’t like in Boyd’s expression because he looked guiltily at him and said all in a rush, “Art’s out of town and Rachel’s mother’s in the hospital for some kind of outpatient thing. I’m real sorry about this, but I gotta go make sure the new kid’s okay.”

“The new kid?”

“I’ll tell you on the way. If we don’t get a move on, we won’t get there ‘til after he’s fucked it up.”

 

There had apparently been a breakout at Eastern Kentucky Correctional, just in the next county over, which was where they drove first. But en route to the place, Raylan got a call from the kid himself, saying there was a situation that probably involved the fugitive in a little town called Campton just about twenty more minutes down the road. 

When they pulled up to the ring of police cars just around a large intersection in the middle of a series of strip malls, Raylan parked quickly and turned to him. “I don’t suppose there’s any way I can convince you to just stay in the car?”

In response to that, Boyd opened the passenger side door and stepped out, hearing Raylan heave a sigh to his back. As soon as he got out of the vehicle, a uniformed officer came running up to him, breathlessly shouting, “You can’t be here. Go back behind the barricade--”

But Raylan was out of the car too, flashing his star and saying, “It’s okay, he’s with me. Where’s the other Marshal?”

They were directed down, closer to the bright green sports car around which all the police vehicles were situated. Raylan walked in front of him and waved over to an young man, blond and skinny, wearing plain black and khaki, and having the look of the army written all over him. His stare said sniper, it was long and hard in a way that Boyd had seen a few times in Kuwait. 

It sort of kept everything at a distance, that stare did. Paired with the traces of a dry smile as well a particular grace of movement, it made the young Marshal seem quite a force to be reckoned with. Boyd already liked him.

When they reached each other, Raylan said quickly, “Deputy Tim Gutterson, this is Boyd Crowder,” as if Boyd belonged there. “Boyd, this is Tim.” They sort of nodded to each other, though Tim had a little bit of a questioning look on his face, and Raylan asked, “What’s the story?” 

The kid, Tim, grimaced and answered. “In the muscle car, we have a Mr. RJ Mahoney, who says he’s got a bomb strapped under him that will blow if he moves or if anyone tries to approach. We pulled a rap sheet a half mile long on Mahoney, mostly connected to a petty crime and oxy pushing contingency of the so-called Dixie Mafia. The same branch that was once headed by Willard Elliott, our fugitive, before he was put away last year. Now, I’m thinking Elliott has some sort of score to settle, one the higher ups didn’t necessarily know when they sprung him. And he’s chosen this unusually theatrical way of getting his revenge.”

“That’s quite a hunch,” Raylan replied, not exactly critically.

“Yeah, well, Mahoney keeps screaming ‘I’m sorry, Willard’ into his cell phone along with all the pleas for mercy. Also, see that building over there,” Tim pointed off to the diagonal right of where they were standing, to a two story shop on top of which stood a man.

Raylan nodded. “Certainly fits Elliott’s description. And he’d need a vantage point if he’s going to see the fireworks.”

“Exactly. And a short enough range to trip the detonator.”

Boyd peered up at the man, shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun, he found the remote in the fugitive’s hand. “He’s got it on a reverse trip. His thumb’s already pressed down, if he lets go, that’s when it will blow. Safer that way if there’s a chance someone will take it from you.”

Raylan looked over at him like he sort of wanted Boyd to shut up and Tim had a real big frown on his face. He was about to speak, but Boyd moved forward, pushing past them both and ignoring Raylan’s call of, “ _Boyd_ ,” in a tone that could only be described as a warning.

Boyd didn’t go far, he just stooped low to the ground, searching underneath the bright green, heavily detailed monstrosity, and found what he was looking for. When he stood up again, he scanned the area one more time and said to Raylan, “You pull these cars back another ten feet and the blast won't touch them or even the buildings along this street. You’re a sharpshooter, right?” Boyd asked Tim. “If you let him take that asshole out, you won’t leave much more than a pothole in the blacktop. Get out your rifle, wing Elliott, and he’ll drop the detonator. You can just climb up there and get him.”

Tim stared at him for a minute, glanced again between him and Raylan and asked, “And who the hell are you, again?”

Boyd found himself grinning as he began to answer, “Well, Deputy Gutterson--”

But Raylan cut him off swiftly, “Boyd, I thought I told you to quit it with that Harlan County, smiling hillbilly bullshit, back when you first met Art.” Boyd smirked like that may have been the case as Raylan turned to Tim. “Tim, Boyd is... my partner.”

“Your...” Tim, dragged out the word into a question, seeing as there would be about three or four different ways to define that particular term. Boyd rolled his eyes.

“My boyfriend,” Raylan finally got out, glaring at Boyd like he knew what he was thinking.

Tim looked between the two of them one more time, licked his lips, and said, “Harlan, huh? That’s gotta be weird.”

“Son, you have no idea,” Boyd answered, watching Raylan look around again.

“What about the bomb squad?” Raylan asked.

“On their way. But they’re coming in from Lexington and this place is far enough off the map, who knows when they’ll get here.” Tim replied.

“Okay,” Raylan finally said, turning to Tim, “I think we should get these guys to move the cars back. If there’s one thing I trust Boyd on, it’s goddamn explosives, even from this distance. But I’m gonna go ahead and forget that other shit you said,” he told Boyd directly, pointing his finger at him, which meant he was real serious. “What else?” he asked Tim and Boyd was glad he pulled himself back from stealing the whole show from the kid. Just because he was new didn’t mean he couldn’t actually handle the situation.

Tim straightened a little and replied, “Well, since the negotiator’s with the bomb squad, but we’re probably running out of time on this one, I’m thinking one of us should probably go talk to Elliott.”

Raylan raised his brows, sliding a hand onto his hip. 

“You,” Tim said quickly. “You should go. I’d be shit at it.”

Raylan smiled and the decision was made. The two Marshals went off in opposite directions, Raylan to his car for a flak vest, and Tim to tell the senior local officer to get the police cars moved back. Boyd leaned against the black SUV he assumed Tim had arrived in and watched the proceedings with a critical eye. 

When Tim returned, Raylan told him, “Despite the fact that we are ignoring that other shit that Boyd said, pull out the rifle anyway. Only wing him if something bad happens.”

Boyd noted the tiny quirk of Tim’s lips, quickly stilled, as Raylan spoke. “Famous last words,” Boyd called from where he was still leaning.

“Don’t pretend you ain’t worried,” Raylan said and grinned at him.

“Oh, Raylan, how could I worry? My heart’s all aflutter,” he said with a hand to his chest. Then added, “You know me,” because Raylan would know what that meant.

“Jesus, you are dating,” Tim said and turned to pull a large duffel from the back of the SUV. “You wanna kiss him goodbye?”

After that, Raylan just walked away, probably stifling a laugh. Boyd watched Tim pull out and assemble his weapon as the police cars all pulled into reverse, stretching the barrier about ten feet wider.

Tim set the rifle up along one of the cement barriers to their left, aiming it in the direction of the man on the roof, who somehow hadn’t yet realized he’d been spotted.

“Can you talk, or do you have to get in some kind of zone?” Boyd asked him.

Tim smirked. “Do this in the desert long enough, you start talking to yourself anyway.” Boyd liked the dryness of his tone. He liked how cool this kid was.

“All right, then,” Boyd said. “He surprised you with me, didn’t he?”

Tim spared him a glance and answered, “Had he told me outright, just in the office for whatever reason and without you on hand, I would have thought he was jerking me around. He’s not exactly... nevermind. The more I think about it, the more sense it makes.” 

Tim loaded the rifle, finally put together, and settled himself in. Boyd lifted his eyes to the roof. It was obvious now the unlucky Mr. Elliott was speaking to someone, his back turned away from the street. “You on the other hand,” Tim continued, “think you’re real smart. I pegged you just as fast for a Gulf War vet, demolitions probably, or a grunt. You seem like the kind, likes to blow shit up.”

Boyd smiled. “Do I seem like the other kind as well?” 

Tim made a noise like he really didn’t want to talk about this anymore, but still replied, “Maybe. But it’s probably just because I never met you without knowing. Why do you care, anyway?”

“Never had a chance to ask anyone about it, I suppose,” Boyd shrugged. “People at home, don’t really care to. Or were so surprised when it came out, there was no sense in askin’.”

“When did it come out?” Boyd couldn’t see Tim’s expression, as his face was up against the sight on his rifle, though his voice held nothing but curiosity.

“Few months ago. But me an’ Raylan, we go back years and years. Been together, mostly, about five now.”

“Shit. That’s a long time to keep a secret.”

Boyd watched Elliott raise his hands in the air and saw Raylan come further out on the roof, approaching the man slowly. “In Harlan, Deputy, that ain’t nothin’ at all,” Boyd told him.

He picked up his phone when it rang, vibrating in the pocket of his jeans. “Well, hello, Raylan,” he answered with a smile as Tim asked, “What’s he calling you for? He’s got a radio.”

“Boyd, this idiot doesn’t know how to disarm the damn thing,” Raylan growled over the line.

Boyd rolled his eyes again and told him.

 

It took another hour to get the bomb disarmed, everything resolved properly, and then reported to the right people. Tim took the fugitive off in his SUV, handcuffed and sufficiently subdued by his failure.

Raylan explained as they were pushing him inside the vehicle, that Mahoney had told Elliott when he was on his way inside that Elliott’s share of their last take would go straight to his family. But his wife reported to him weeks later that she hadn’t seen any of it. He found out through other sources that Mahoney had spent all the money on himself, specifically on that hideous car.

Boyd found he couldn’t really fault Elliott for his actions, or at least the emotion behind them, if not the brains, though obviously the law and Raylan Givens could.

When they were finally on the road back to Harlan, both he and Raylan were quiet. The silence was tense, and Boyd knew it was only a matter of time before Raylan broke it, he was staring at the road so hard.

“What is it?” Boyd asked, taking some small pleasure from beating him to the punch.

Raylan frowned and waiting a minute before he answered. “Elliott said something funny to me, when I mentioned his buddies breaking him out.”

“Oh?”

“He begged me not to tell Arnett he’d got out.” After taking a glance at Boyd’s blank look, he continued, explaining, “Arnett’s the highest contact I know of within that organization. There’s people above him, but they’re silent partners. He’s been the face over there, far as we can tell, for about two, three years. If Frankfort had sprung Elliott, they would know he was out.”

“So you’re thinking it was someone else?”

Raylan grimaced. “Must be. But, Boyd, another player in this area? That’s not gonna be good for anybody.”

Boyd didn’t answer, because there was no sense in agreeing with the obvious. He raised his hand to his brow, drawing his fingers across his eyes in an attempt to get at the tension there.

“Boyd,” Raylan said, like he wasn’t sure what else to say.

“Raylan, I’d really rather not, if you don’t mind,” Boyd replied, knowing just what else was bothering him. “All I want is for you to keep driving right on until we get home, so you can do that thing we talked about before, okay?”

Raylan’s frown only grew deeper in answer and they didn’t speak again until they reached the house.

 

The place was just as quiet as they were when they returned. But it was a comfortable quiet, a good one, and Boyd felt just a little bit of that tension lift off him as they walked into the kitchen together.

Raylan poured them each two fingers of Jack almost immediately. Boyd drank his fast and, after watching him do it, so did Raylan.

Boyd set down his glass and the clink of it hitting the tile on the counter was the only sound in the room. Raylan stepped forward, setting down his own empty glass, as Boyd reached for him. Their lips met swiftly and it felt so much better than anything else that had happened to him that day. 

“That’s right,” Boyd murmured between kisses. “Put your hands all over me, baby.”

Raylan pulled back at Boyd’s words, casting a lingering and rough eye over him. Boyd met his gaze steadily, unflinching, before Raylan pulled him upstairs.

They fucked that night in virtual silence.

And it wasn’t soundless in the way they’d done it before, making it a command to be strictly followed. 

Boyd said nothing because he didn’t want to speak and Raylan said nothing because he knew when to follow someone’s lead, even if he rarely indulged in the habit. His hands spoke to Boyd as loud as a shout and they said everything he needed to hear. His lips moved across Boyd’s own, traveled along the curves of his muscles and limbs, softer than a whisper, but with a meaning that couldn’t be ignored.

Raylan’s eyes communicated a sincere knowledge and a silent worry as Boyd still did not speak. He let only his breath pass through his lips, heavy, but not despairing, as Raylan touched him, worked him open so he was ready. He looked at his boy, face dark with unvoiced concern, and smiled, pulling him closer.

When Boyd settled down on Raylan’s cock he could hear the ragged edges of a sob behind his moan. He ignored it, opening his eyes and staring down Raylan, finding just the right amount of leverage so that he would be the one setting the pace, riding his lover to orgasm because he fucking wanted to.

Raylan’s breath hitched in response. His hands hadn’t yet ceased their movement, but his nails dug in, leaving shallow scratches across Boyd’s back, making him hiss and move to catch Raylan’s lips between his teeth.

“Fuck, Boyd,” Raylan said, tearing his mouth away, then bending down to drag his lips down Boyd’s neck and back up to the sweet spot behind his ear. He breathed softly there, his hand wrapping steadily around Boyd’s cock, and whispered, “Everyone knows you’re mine, now.”

It wasn’t long before Boyd came, gasping and hoarse, pressing his forehead up against Raylan’s chest. Raylan came soon after, with a suppressed groan. Boyd’s lips slipped over to the crook of his neck. He kissed the muscles there smooth as the tension of orgasm abated and Raylan relaxed inside him.

Soothing hands found their way into Boyd’s hair, combing through and twisting softly as Boyd’s breathing slowed. They stayed like that for what felt like a long time.

 

Art delivered on Raylan’s demands in exchange for the time they took that Saturday, so he was still in town on Monday night. Boyd wasn’t expecting a call in to the mine for another few days, as he’d been cut down from three shifts a week to two, or sometimes just one, since the incident with the emulex and the cave in.

They had Helen over to eat. It was late in the year for a cookout, but they put on their coats and did it anyway. Raylan didn’t like the smell of smoke in the house, and Helen wasn’t going to let that stop her from smoking, so that was the compromise.

Boyd knew he had been subdued since returning from Little Sandy and the thing in Campton. He noticed Raylan watching him with a more discerning eye, a glint of worry not quite hidden. He tried to smile when he caught Raylan’s eye and he wondered if it looked as forced as it felt.

When Raylan went back inside the house to get the bread and cheese for the burgers, Helen came over to Boyd as he flipped over the patties. She watched him work for a minute and when the was done he turned to her and gave her another weak smile.

“You gotta stop makin’ that face, honey,” she said, blowing the smoke from her lungs. “It’s sad as hell.”

Boyd frowned at her, turning from the heat of the grill and rubbed at his eyes. He wanted one of her cigarettes, but the knowledge that Raylan would hate that even more than his fake smile held him back.

“You got him all riled up about this,” she continued, taking a drag. “Raylan practically begged me to come over here and talk to you.”

Boyd looked at her, still frowning, because that didn’t sound like Raylan at all. “What did he say?”

Helen smirked and replied, “When he called to tell me you boys were cookin’, he said, ‘Helen, I think you should come over and talk to Boyd for a minute tonight when I ain’t around’. When I asked why, he gave me this big sigh, said, ‘no reason,’ and hung up.”

Boyd smiled, in spite of himself. Raylan really was worried. “I told him I was fine.”

“Guess he didn’t believe you.” Helen’s gaze was watchful, thoughtful in a way that Boyd somehow found comforting.

Boyd turned back to the burgers, flipping them one last time for good measure. “Do you?”

Helen smiled softly at him and patted his shoulder. “You will be. Of that, I have no doubt.”

Raylan came back out a moment later and Helen took her seat up on the porch. Raylan carried over the buns and the fixings on a big plate, looking Boyd over with the same watchful eye as his aunt.

“You know, Raylan, if it wasn’t so cute, it would be annoying,” Boyd said, taking some cheese and laying it over the still cooking burgers.

Raylan just smiled like he didn’t know what Boyd was talking about and bumped their hips together, sliding his long fingers around Boyd’s arm, right above the elbow and squeezing gently. Boyd’s eyes widened and then darted over to Helen who was carefully not watching them. His brows furrowed at the unusually public display.

“I don’t care what it is, Boyd,” Raylan said quietly, eyes serious. “You know me.”

Boyd couldn’t answer because Helen called from the porch, “Get those burgers off the grill, boys, and let’s eat inside. Temperature took a turn down and I don’t care to freeze my ass off just for a smoke.”

“All right, Helen,” Raylan said, taking the spatula from Boyd and doing just that.

When they came in the house, Helen already had the ‘shine out and was sitting at the kitchen table like she’d never moved out. Raylan laughed, “That shit’s your answer for everything.”

Boyd smirked and sat down opposite her. “You have to admit, Raylan, it’s a good answer,” he said, taking a glass. 

Coming in from the cold had warmed Boyd’s skin up, but the ‘shine burned on the way down, heating his core. Raylan brushed against his shoulders and back as he moved around the kitchen, letting a hand fall or slide across him lingeringly. The looks he shot Boyd made him feel just as warm as the booze had and he noticed Helen watching them with a strangely soft smile.

Boyd looked away and quirked his lips at Raylan, who was now sitting to his right, and wondered just what had happened to bring about this change in him.

“You didn’t tell him how he was all up on you when those boys slipped him that mickie, did you?” Helen asked Raylan with amusement.

Instead of answering, Raylan just bit into his burger innocently and Boyd shot glares at both of them then decided to pour himself another drink.

They lingered over the shine and some pie from the market that Helen had brought with her for a couple hours, talking about old times, though carefully treading around the bad. Somehow, it was Boyd and Raylan who were the worse for wear, though he was sure he’d seen Helen drink just as much as they had.

She took her leave of them with their elbows propped on the table, leaning against each other, and their legs tangled together underneath. She ruffled Boyd’s hair for some reason, and he was too slow to pull away, then kissed Raylan on the cheek, calling, “Be good, boys,” as she left. It was surprisingly hard for Boyd to resist the urge to assure her he would.

They ascended the stairs slowly. Boyd’s muscles felt slow as molasses and his feet were heavy on the steps. He sort of pulled Raylan up as Raylan pushed him from behind, and they undressed each other down to their underwear in a similar fashion.

“I’m too drunk for fucking, Boyd,” Raylan murmured pressing his forehead to Boyd’s shoulder.

Boyd wanted to laugh but couldn’t quite get there, settled for a genuine smile and thought that was a step in the right direction at least. “Okay, baby.”

“You want some head?” he asked as Boyd walked him backwards to the bed. “I owe you one back for that time you don’t remember.”

Boyd kissed the side of Raylan’s mouth while he was still talking and considered it. “Don’t think I’m up for it either. But I’ll keep in mind what you said about owing me back.”

Raylan laughed and pulled Boyd up on top of him on the bed. They laid together, pressing close, and just breathing until Raylan spoke, “You don’t need to be this way, darlin’. Not for him.”

Boyd raised himself up, half straddling Raylan as he looked down at him quizzically. “You’ve never called me that before, Raylan,” he said slowly, almost like he didn’t quite believe himself.

Raylan grinned and ran his hands up and down Boyd’s arms. “I did that one time you don’t remember.”

“Of course you did,” Boyd huffed in response and laid himself back down on top of his boy. After a while he said, “I ain’t tryin’ to be no way, Raylan. He’s my daddy. It’s... hard.”

“I know,” Raylan answered, pressing a kiss to Boyd’s cheek. His lips formed a smile against Boyd’s skin and he murmured, “Who do you think’s gonna fuck us over worse? My daddy or yours?”

“What’s your daddy doin’ from the grave that I don’t know about, Raylan?”

Raylan just looked at him and Boyd knew. His smile turned sad, because they both knew, what Arlo did, it was always there, and maybe what Bo did, too. But Boyd was going to keep his wounds open, raw and painful, instead of deep, aching scars, until the big man got out and made his move and they would do what they had to.

Boyd heaved a sigh. There was no sense dwelling on it now. He settled down next to Raylan and made himself stop thinking.

 

They didn’t always sleep close together. Raylan was a restless sleeper on occasion, especially when work was on his mind. He’d hog the covers if Boyd would let him and he often woke with a start that would rouse them both.

As they spent more time together in the house, sleeping and awake, Boyd had gotten used to it. He didn’t wake up nearly as much as he had previously, when he’d tried to be so in tune with what Raylan was thinking and doing on his rare visits. 

Sometimes they would sleep sprawled across each other, others they would be on complete opposite sides of the mattress. Tonight, Raylan had kept Boyd close, arms and legs tangled up, for fairly obvious reasons, and later they would both be glad of it.

Boyd had to blame the alcohol on the fact that neither of them heard the break in, not a shattering of glass, nor footfalls on the stairs or the hall. It was only the creak of the doorframe, making a noise like the floor was going to fall through every time anyone put their foot across the threshold, that sent Raylan’s eyes flying open and tensed his muscles enough to wake Boyd. Boyd couldn’t see anything in the dark, but he felt the hyper-aware tension in Raylan only a split second before he heard the cocking of a loaded sawed-off.

He pulled again and Raylan pushed and they rolled each other off the bed as the shots rang out, spraying scatter shot at the precise spot they had just been. Boyd hadn’t been caught by it, and he looked up desperately into Raylan’s eyes, letting them tell him he hadn't been either. Raylan put a hand on Boyd’s chest, which was aching straight through from where his back had hit the floor. He felt everything become still, even as the asshole was unloading the rest of his round at them and they should have been scrambling to the corners or under the bed or anywhere else he couldn’t get at them.

Raylan took his hands off Boyd and turned, with something cold and terrifying in his eyes, padding softly through the dark around the foot of the bed. When he reached their attacker he sent him straight down to the floor with a vicious right hook followed swiftly by a flying elbow. Boyd hadn’t moved from the floor and he saw two of the man’s teeth roll themselves underneath the bed. The shotgun skittered across the hardwood as well and Boyd snatched it up in his hands, checking fast to see that the asshole had just loaded in a round.

Raylan and the attacker, dressed all in black with a now bloody ski mask, were too tangled up in their bare-knuckle boxing match for Boyd to get a shot in on the man without hitting his own as well. So he scrambled back and around, hoping to catch a wider angle, scooping up Raylan’s sidearm off the dresser in the process. 

When Raylan pushed the masked man up against the window, it shattered and Raylan, barefoot, backed up to avoid the glass, though he was still in range of the sawed-off. Boyd took the opportunity. Settling the shotgun in the crook of his elbow, he took Raylan’s glock in both hands and shot, clipping the bastard in the arm as he tumbled out the window.

“Shit,” Raylan said and spun, wild-eyed and glaring. Boyd spared him nothing but a glance, turning himself and speeding out of the room. Raylan was in hot pursuit, an echo of thudding footsteps down the stairs, calling after him, “Boyd, that’s a Government-issued weapon. No one is supposed to shoot it but me.”

They were out of the house in a flash. Boyd spotted a dark shape stumbling, but not slowly, from the trees on the side of the house toward the wooded hill coming up out of the holler. “You think you can hit him at this range, in this light, better than I can?” They both knew Raylan was faster, but their aim was about on par with each other, especially at a moving target.

“No,” Raylan growled. Boyd took the shot and missed. 

 

While Raylan called it in, Boyd looked at the glass on the floor of the bedroom, itching to go get the dust pan, but knowing he couldn’t because it was a damn crime scene. He put on some clothes instead, a pair of old jeans and one of Raylan’s white beaters, despite the cold air of the evening.

Raylan came in, probably with the same idea, and stopped in the doorway, taking a long look at him and at the dark ink exposed on his right shoulder.

“What?” Boyd said, a challenge in his voice.

“Sheriff’s on his way over,” he replied and moved towards the dresser. Boyd stepped out of his way and sat heavily on the bed.

“Mosley?” Boyd asked, even though he knew. “Raylan, that man has had it out for my family--”

Raylan silenced him with a look. His expression was angry, just barely reigned in, but Boyd knew it wasn’t for him. His words were clipped and toneless. “I know he was the one, put your daddy away, Boyd. That doesn’t mean he’s got some kind of vendetta. You think he ain’t gonna do his job, just ‘cause it’s you living in my house and not any other kid from the county?”

Boyd glared. “Depends on which kid, I expect.”

Raylan rolled his eyes as he pulled a shirt, long-sleeved and white, over his head. He was standing stiffly, still filled with tension, as he spoke. “Personally, I’d rather not have local P.D. on this, but it happened here and there’s no way to avoid it.” He slung his side arm on over his jeans, though he knew ballistics from some department or other was going to get it eventually.

Raylan paced as they waited out the police and Boyd sat and watched him. They didn’t talk about what they were going to say, or who either of them suspected was behind the evening’s events. 

 

When he came in, Harlan County Sheriff Hunter Mosley looked just as uncomfortable as the contractor Boyd had finally called to come in and look at those rafters. He scanned his eyes around the house, the first floor as well, like he was looking for signs of homosexuality in their furniture or in the paint on the walls. 

He shook that attitude off fast when he caught both Raylan and Boyd eyeing him over it, then smiled and put on his lawman show, ushering in a host of officers and crime scene techs and talking them through what had happened.

Raylan answered most of the questions, just because he knew how best to do so, though Boyd did chime in when Mosley asked Raylan to clarify what they were doing in the bed. 

“Sleeping,” he snarled, shaking off Raylan’s hand as he tried to clamp it down on his arm. “What do you do at midnight on a Monday with your wife, Hunter?”

Mosley stiffened, but Raylan got his hand on Boyd’s wrist and squeezed hard, casting a pleading look his way. “Anything else?” he asked the Sheriff in a clipped tone that brooked no more bullshit.

Boyd reminded himself he couldn’t be like this, because he knew Raylan was just as near the breaking point, just as beaten down and riled up by what had happened. This was his house as well, theirs. 

After that Boyd put himself in the corner and Raylan started shaking his leg around like he was aiming for it to fall off at the hip. When Mosley went downstairs, Raylan started started to pace again.

“You should watch out for glass,” Boyd told him, thinking of Raylan’s still bare feet and the damage they hadn’t been able to do anything about yet. The mattress and headboard were in shambles. Pieces of wood and bits of feather were strewn about the room, blowing around in the breeze coming in from the shattered window.

Raylan glared at him and kept on moving. “You should keep your mouth shut if all you’re gonna do is make him mad. I know he’s a dick, but Jesus, Boyd. We actually do need his help.”

Boyd looked away.

“You were right,” Mosley said grudgingly a moment later as he came back in from the yard. “You got him somewhere. There’s a trail of blood, more’n what you’d get from a broken window, goin’ up into your woods back there.”

Boyd’s eyes were on Raylan, who was looking a bit like a caged panther. “Told you, it was the shoulder,” he said in a low voice, and drew a line across his own, right through the big black swastika. He smiled when the Sheriff’s brows rose up to his hairline.

Raylan threw Boyd a look that said, “You about done?” And turned to Mosley, who finally asked the question they’d all been waiting for, “You got any idea who was behind this? Which one of you they might’ve been after?”

They shared a glance at the question. Boyd’s instinct was not to say anything, but he knew Raylan’s would be the exact opposite.

Mosley beat them to the punch. “Heard Bo had some visitors up at Little Sandy this past week.”

Raylan’s eyes flashed and Boyd ground out, “It wasn’t him.”

“What makes you so sure? He can’t be happy about... all this. He’s got the reach, you know he has.” Boyd wanted to wipe that smug look off the man’s face, but he pressed himself hard up against the wall, digging his fingers into his own flesh at the elbows.

Raylan worked his jaw. “Sure he does, Hunter, but you might wanna trust Boyd on this one. Seeing as it’s his daddy we’re talking about.”

“All the more reason he’d want to protect him. When you get into this family stuff, Raylan--”

Boyd was across the room in two steps, but Raylan caught him by the arm before he reached Mosley, who backed up fast. He hissed, “You know I was up there, you probably know what he told me, asshole. I got time to ‘fix’ this shit before he comes after me and I know he won’t let a two-bit hitman be the one who takes care of it when I don’t. I’ve been tangling with that man longer than you’ve been wiping your own ass, Mosley. Just ‘cause you caught him, don’t mean you know a damn thing about him.”

Raylan hauled Boyd back behind him, turning his back to Mosley, who’d wisely said nothing in reply. Raylan put one hand on Boyd’s shoulder and the other one at the back of his neck, forcing their eyes to meet. “You really wanna play it this way?” he asked softly.

Boyd shook his head, trying to calm his breath. His hands were shaking, but he didn’t think he could touch Raylan like Raylan was touching him, not right now, not with Mosley in the room. 

“He doesn’t get it,” Raylan went on, still soft, and real steady. “But it doesn’t matter. We’ll answer his damn questions, and he’ll be gone soon enough. Right?”

Boyd nodded, casting his eyes down, then back up and over Raylan’s shoulder, catching the Sheriff staring right at them. Boyd felt his anger simmer, threaten to rise up again, but he tamped it down, because Raylan--who was usually so terrible at keeping his lid on-- was showing him up in that regard.

He stepped carefully out of Raylan’s arms and stared Mosley down. “You’ll have to excuse me, Sheriff,” he said, straining for an apologetic smile. “It’s been a difficult few days for us.”

Mosley looked at him hard for a long moment, and Boyd wondered if the gears were turning in there, if he was thinking about all that his ear inside Little Sandy had told him about that meeting with his Daddy, about how it would feel if someone came into his home and emptied a round into his bed while he was sleeping in it.

“Fine, Crowder,” he finally said. “But I’m still gonna go over to the county line, have a chat with your cousin Johnny.”

“I’ll go with you,” Boyd replied.

 

It took some convincing on Boyd’s part, to both Raylan and the Sheriff, that his accompaniment was a good idea. But Boyd had never been one to back down from an argument he wanted to win. 

He won out in the end. Neither of the other parties looked pleased about it, but Boyd could really care less at that point. He knew he could hash things out with Raylan later, when they were on their way to Lexington to get everything sorted in regards to the firing of his sidearm, and he just didn’t give a damn about Mosley.

Though the car ride over would have been more pleasant if he had.

When they reached the bar, Boyd was the first through the door and Johnny, who’d been leaning over the pool table with a pretty young lady, turned and gave him a big smile. It only lasted as long as it took him to spot Mosley shadowing Boyd in the threshold.

The bar wasn’t crowded, it was late on a Monday night, after all. He hadn’t set foot in the place since things between him and Raylan had come out for real. It just hadn’t seemed prudent, though Boyd was fairly sure Johnny wasn’t going to judge him. He’d always been the live and let live sort.

Boyd scanned the room and didn’t see anyone that struck him as unfriendly towards him lately, or who would spread anything around too readily. He didn’t think things would go sideways here, but it was always good to be prepared. Everyone in the place was sort of eyeing him up, but he’d had so much of that recently, he barely noticed. 

Johnny had the jukebox loud, blaring some Steve Earle song Boyd couldn’t identify before he put it out of his mind. The place looked much the same as it always had, though he noticed they’d gotten another of their illegal electronic slot machines.

Boyd saw that Johnny was seriously considering going for the obvious jab here, so Boyd spoke before he could, “No, Johnny, sorry to disappoint, but the only lawman I been passing the time with is your old buddy, Raylan Givens.” He made sure he was smirking when he said this, though his insides were still all tied up in knots.

Johnny’s eyebrows rose. “Doesn’t look that way to me. Maybe you got some kind of thing.”

Boyd wished he could laugh. This is what they used to do, all the time, even when Boyd was keeping his secrets close, they used to fuck around like boys do, call each other all sorts of degrading things, make wild, disgusting suppositions. Instead, he felt the smile leave his face and replied, “The only thing I got is a bed full of scattershot and a broken window. Sheriff here, wants to make sure it wasn’t you, broke in and fired at us... or Daddy.”

Johnny straightened up, glaring between them both as the Sheriff drew up alongside Boyd. “Why would I break in, guns blazing on my own cousin?”

“You wouldn’t,” Boyd said immediately. “I’ve just been unable to convince Sheriff Mosley here otherwise, without some kind of proof.”

Johnny laughed. “You... unable to convince someone of anything?”

Now Boyd did smile again as he said, “Seems I am not deemed a trustworthy man in some circles lately.”

“Ain’t no lately about it,” Mosley said gruffly. 

“Lately for some,” Boyd corrected, looking at Johnny.

“You ever think it might be your fault people think you ain’t trustworthy no more, Boyd?”

“It wasn’t ever anything I could change, Johnny. Nor that I would want to.” Boyd kept his voice even here and his eyes on his cousin’s.

Johnny nodded and that was that. “All right, Sheriff,” he said the title like it was something he’d scrape off his boot. “How can I convince you the Crowders had no hand in shooting up Raylan Givens’ damn bedroom?” He eyed Boyd for a split second after he asked the question, like he still couldn’t quite believe Raylan’s bedroom was a place Boyd would frequent.

Mosley scowled, obviously unhappy at being so disrespected. “Strip,” he ordered and both Boyd and Johnny stiffened.

“Are you serious?” Johnny cried even as Boyd said, “Sheriff,” in a warning tone.

Mosley rounded on Boyd, his hand hovering over his sidearm. “You said you clipped him in the shoulder. I saw the blood myself. I wanna see if it was his shoulder you got.”

“You want to see him humiliated in his own place of business,” Boyd said in a low, dangerous voice. “It wasn’t him I got. I’d know his scream if I shot my own goddamned cousin, Mosley. I was under the impression we were here to ask him about Daddy. If you ask me, all we’re doing here is wasting time and leaving any other trail of evidence cold.”

“I didn’t fucking ask you, Crowder. Johnny, you gonna show me or not?”

But Johnny’s eyes were on Boyd. “You think Bo had a hand in this?” His tone held disapproval and suspicion. Boyd hated that, and suddenly felt he shouldn’t have come. He shouldn’t have been anywhere near this discussion.

“I don’t,” Boyd replied with certainty. “Daddy’s gonna deal with me on his own time. He wouldn’t send someone to do it for him. I...” Boyd paused and allowed the bitter, ironic smile he’d been holding in for days spread across his face. “I broke his heart, Johnny.”

Johnny frowned at him. “He tell you that?”

Boyd nodded.

He felt every breath that went through his lungs in the seconds that Johnny gave him a hard stare, still frowning. “Well, then you know it’s bullshit, Boyd. He’s just pissed.” Boyd’s cousin shook his head and went on, “You boys always were too concerned with what that man’s thinking of you. He’s a damn good boss and a pretty good salesman, but he’s a fucking bully. I thought you unwound yourself from his little finger years ago, son.”

Boyd blinked at him, but didn’t get an opportunity to reply, to say that he thought he had, because Mosley was on Johnny again, taking a step forward in a subtly threatening manner and saying, “Not that I don’t love hearing about good ol’ Bo and the new and interesting ways he’s screwing up his children, but I still ain’t seen that shoulder of yours, Johnny. We gonna do this the easy way or the hard way?”

Boyd sneered at the man, having just about enough of this charade. “You’re gonna do it without me, Sheriff. This is bullshit and you know it. I’ll be outside.” He turned to Johnny before he went and thrust out his hand, though they always used to be close enough that an embrace would have been in order. “I’m sorry I brought this into your place, Johnny. It won’t happen again.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, cousin,” Johnny replied, taking his hand and squeezing hard. He was smiling as well, and Boyd was grateful.

He turned and told Mosley over his shoulder as he walked to the door, “I’ll be by the car.”

It took at least three minutes for Mosley to come through the door after him, dragging Johnny by the collar. The parking lot was empty of people and Johnny’s nose was bloody. 

Boyd wasn’t exactly surprised, but he couldn’t keep the look of disgust off his face as he watched the lawman push his cousin around. He knew the worst possible thing he could do would be to intervene. Mosley couldn’t wait to get him in cuffs on some trumped up charge, just like all the Crowders, and the most stepping in here could do would be to give him an excuse.

Johnny tried to scramble away, as he couldn’t exactly retaliate without being arrested, but Mosley got a hand on his shirt sleeve and pulled viciously, tearing it down and ripping it open. There was no bandage, no bloody wound to reveal. Mosley looked him up and down and smirked, like he’d won something, then stalked over to the car.

“Boyd,” Johnny called from the ground and Boyd went, kneeling down beside him. Johnny looked pissed as hell as he clamped a hand down on Boyd’s arm and said quietly, “You know Bo wouldn’t do what was done to you tonight, but I feel like I gotta tell you, cousin, he _can’t_ have done it, either.”

Everything in Boyd went very still as he said, “What do you mean, Johnny?”

“I dunno what this asshole’s been telling you, but Bo doesn’t have that reach no more. You been out of it. You don’t know. All he has is guys inside who whisper to him and a shitload of cash hidden somewhere on his property. He lost the routes out of Harlan for Miami and Frankfort when Mosley took him down. Someone else snatched up that shit, and they’re quiet as hell. Bo can’t have put out a hit, not unless he told someone where that money is. You think he’s gonna tell Bowman about it, or me?” Johnny had spoken fast enough to be out of breath at the end of his speech, and his eyes were earnest, almost pleading.

“No, Johnny, I don’t. But then, the question becomes, why would the good Sheriff lie?”

It was then that Mosley chose to call from the driver’s side door, “Crowder, you hitchin’ a ride or not?”

Johnny looked up at Boyd., the familiar eyes of his family, of Boyd’s brother and father so recently filled with anger and disgust, were now only worried, concerned. “You be careful, cousin. You-” he nearly tripped over the words, but still continued, “You tell Raylan, be careful too.”

“I will,” Boyd said, reeling from such freely offered acceptance, a rare and treasured commodity in his current circumstances, and stepped away, climbing into the car.

 

Boyd refused to be the first to speak inside Mosley’s vehicle. He was pissed and Mosley knew it. 

He remembered back in high school, at Evarts, when team camaraderie would get the better of socio-economic differences and out and out dislike, and the boys on the baseball team would spend the playoff series--the one, and only one, through which they would last--hanging out with each other constantly. That was the only time in which Boyd, on account of Johnny, had ever been prevailed upon to socialize with Hunter Mosley, or even with Raylan for that matter. 

It was actually at that time that Boyd had noticed Raylan, really seen him and not immediately dismissed him as a fucking Givens with a superior attitude--not that Boyd’s was any less superior. They’d all gone to a party together, where someone was blasting country rock from a boom box and there was a keg and a bonfire and kids getting stoned.

Mosley hadn’t partaken because he was a damn stick-in-the-mud, and Boyd hadn’t either because he just wasn’t feeling it that night. He didn’t like letting things loose with parties virtually unknown, and sometimes, he just liked to people watch. 

Hunter sat near the fire with a scowl on his face, while Boyd walked around with a beer in his hand that he wasn’t drinking. The boys were in high spirits, having just won the first game in a series they would ultimately lose and Boyd watched them laughing together, keeping a steady smile on his face as he listened to their shit-talking and back-slapping.

Raylan, who had earned a reputation for being a secretly terrifying motherfucker when he took out Dickie Bennett’s knee earlier that season, was coerced into shotgunning two beers in a row. He performed admirably, and then someone shoved a jar of ‘shine in his face. It hadn't helped that he’d come out of the game somewhat of a hero, for a last-minute run that pulled them out of a tying score and pushed another boy across home-plate as well.

Boyd watched the proceedings, smiling and responding when Johnny said anything to him, but all the while keeping his eyes on Raylan.

Raylan’s smile was big, real big. It was the kind of smile you showed the world when you didn’t think you could be any happier, when everything that was terrible about your life was no where near you. Boyd had never seen anyone smile like that, not in Harlan at least, and he thought it was something special. He felt privileged to have witnessed it.

He also, as the time passed and Raylan drank even more, felt some kind of obligation to him. Not necessarily to keep that smile where it was, as it was obvious that kind of pure expression was unsustainable, but to make sure that Raylan would live long enough to smile like that again.

Boyd took his chance when Raylan had just finished another beer. That time it was a failed shotgun attempt, at which most of the other boys were too busy laughing to notice Boyd had pulled their entertainment away. Raylan came easily under Boyd’s strong grip on his upper arm, stumbling a little, but catching himself and laughing. He put his hand on Boyd’s shoulder for support and later Boyd would remember it as the first time Raylan Givens touched him.

He dragged Raylan over to a fallen tree trunk, rotting out from the ends, not too far from the rest of the team, and sat him down. Raylan was pliant, his brain miles from where his body was, so he blinked at Boyd and asked, “What’re we doing over here?”

“I wanted to talk to you a minute,” Boyd answered patiently. “We don’t talk much, do we, Givens?”

Raylan furrowed his brows. “No,” he said. And that was the first time Boyd discovered that Raylan was an interestingly reticent drunk, saying nothing unless he was spoken to first, and then often still saying almost nothing at all. Unless, of course, someone or something annoyed him, at which point he could become belligerent as all hell.

Boyd smiled then, so Raylan smiled back and a hint of that blazing grin shone through it. Boyd wanted to see more, so he kept talking.

“You seem to be a favorite these days with them boys.” Boyd nodded over to the rest of the team, who’d gotten some girls from somewhere and were now attempting to have them catch up to their level of inebriation. It didn’t seem like a good idea to Boyd.

“Guess so.” Raylan looked away and shrugged, his whole body moving unsteadily with the motion. Boyd kept his eyes on him, to make sure he wasn’t going to fall over.

“Must be on account of that shit with Dickie.”

Raylan scowled. “Wish it wasn’t.”

“Why is that?”

Raylan snorted derisively and brought his hands together like he was aiming to hit something, though he made no real move to do so. “Dickie Bennett’s a moron who thinks he’s a genius. He ain’t never gonna ‘mount to anything but a self-inflated pot-dealer in a town full of shit-kicker crime lords battling themselves bloody and dead over whose pile of shit is the biggest one.” He looked over at Boyd and seemed to realize what he’d just said. “Fuck. Sorry, man.”

Boyd laughed, wondering what exactly that had to do with Raylan being praised for beating the tar out of him, then said truthfully, “That ain’t nothin’, Raylan, but I have to ask--you think you’re gonna be anything better than that?”

“I’m gon’ get out,” he said darkly, his accent melding hard into the alcohol’s slur. He leaned forward like he was bestowing some secret on Boyd. “I don’ care what I do. I won’ be doin’ it here.”

Boyd smiled because Raylan was smiling, soft, like Boyd understood wanting to leave, but that was a lie. He felt like shit and he couldn’t put his finger on why. 

Raylan’s smile grew wider and he put his hands on Boyd’s shoulders, letting his eyelids fall half-shut and leaning further in, mostly because he’d lost his balance. “What’re we doin’ over here, Crowder? Let’s go back. I wan’ another beer...” he trailed off and made to stand.

Boyd’s hands on his forearms put a stop to that quickly and Raylan laughed, screwing his eyes shut, like it was his own fault he hadn’t been able to make it up. “Jus’ talk to me for a little while, Raylan,” Boyd said.

“Okay,” he replied easily, looking at Boyd again. “What you wan’ talk about?”

Boyd had no idea, he barely knew this boy. 

Well, perhaps that was a lie, too. He knew about him, he knew his daddy was a no good wife-beater and a drunk. He knew his mama had stayed in Noble’s Holler the longest of any living woman in Harlan and still hadn’t left Arlo. He knew Raylan’s uncle, on his mama’s side, had been killed by gun thugs a few years back, one of the last murders of that kind that didn’t make it to the big city papers when the union strikes entered the national media consciousness. He knew the Givens and the Crowders had held onto uneasy partnerships in the past more than they had to grudges. He knew he really wanted to talk to Raylan some more.

Raylan had begun listing a little as all that ran through Boyd’s mind so Boyd put a hand back on his shoulder, setting him upright and saying, real soft, “Raylan.”

He opened his eyes and smiled again. “Boyd,” he said and it was the first time Boyd heard his first name on those lips.

Raylan’s brows furrowed and he looked at Boyd hard for a minute before saying, “Boyd, your hair is real weird-lookin’. Did you know that?”

Boyd touched his hair, which even at that time, stuck out in all directions. He’d never been one to make scheduled trips to the barber, so it was long then, rising several inches into the air. He laughed softly and answered, “Yes, Raylan, I did know that.”

Raylan just nodded. “Good. Okay.”

Boyd wondered at that, but couldn’t say anything else because Hunter Mosley was on his way over, calling Raylan’s name. “You don’t look so good,” he told Raylan when he reached them.

Raylan shook his head, taking his hands off Boyd’s arms. “‘M fine,” he replied.

Mosley looked over at the rest of them, some of which had left with the girls, others were sitting on the ground near the fire, still drinking. It was obvious he didn’t want to stay. “I think I better take you home.”

At that, Raylan stiffened, visibly attempting to make himself appear less drunk and failing spectacularly. “I’m fine,” he enunciated carefully. “I don’ need to leave, Hunter.”

Mosley looked at him, brows arched and a little frown of disbelief on his face.

Boyd chimed in now, noticing how Raylan was clutching hard at the trunk to keep himself from wavering. He really didn’t want to go. “I think it’s okay, Mosley. Let him walk it off or something. He don’t need to leave now. I’ll--”

“I’ll thank you to let me take care of my teammate, Crowder. I really don’t even know what you’re doing here tonight.” Mosley scowled at him then muttered as he reached for Raylan, “Fucking Johnny, Jesus.”

Boyd was frozen for a second by the open hostility of the boy, from whom he’d never heard such a sentiment--though granted, they hardly traveled in the same circles. He was still caught up in the shock when Raylan toppled over as he tried to evade Mosley’s grasp.

“I ain’ goin’,” Raylan mumbled into the grass, twisting around to his hands and knees. 

Boyd was up and around the trunk to Raylan before Hunter could make the move himself. He hauled Raylan to his feet, taking most of his weight through the shoulders and hip. Raylan was turned to him and looked right into his eyes, though he didn’t seem to be seeing much. Boyd registered a fear there the boy couldn’t hide, maybe wouldn’t even have been able to if he were dead sober. 

“I’m so drunk,” Raylan whispered, perhaps thinking even Boyd couldn’t hear. “He’s gon’ be so pissed.”

Something cold and sharp sunk into Boyd’s gut, clawing a terror there that wasn’t his own. He’d never known this fear, but he could imagine it, the knowledge that there was no safe place. 

“He don’t want to go, Mosley,” Boyd said, and as soon as he did Raylan looked at him like he’d just realized it was an actual person on which he was clinging. 

“You want to fight about this, Crowder?” Mosley was serious and Boyd stared at him like he was crazy.

“What is your damn problem, son?” he cried, but at the same moment, Raylan stepped forward, letting go of Boyd and saying, “No.”

Raylan looked back at Boyd, that fear still lurking in his eyes, silencing any protests. “You ain’t gonna fight about it. I’ll fucking go.”

He let Mosley put his hand on his shoulder, and lead him away. Boyd didn’t say anything, paralyzed by Raylan’s ridiculous bravery and something else it would take him years to understand.

Boyd sat in Hunter Mosley’s police cruiser nearly twenty years later, scowling, feeling the anger of that night and everything that had just happened boiling up in him. He hadn’t wanted to be the one to speak first, but he couldn’t hold back the question anymore.

“Just what is your problem with my family?” Boyd asked, knowing he sounded something like petulant.

“You mean other than you lot being no account, hillbilly, drug pushers?” Mosley asked.

“You wanna cut it with the name-calling, Sheriff?” he retorted, saying the title in the same way Johnny had.

“That’s it,” Mosley said. “You Crowders, don’t give any respect to nothin’. I am the goddamn Sheriff of this goddamn county and you spit on that every chance you fucking get.”

Boyd stared at him. “This is _Harlan County_ , Mosley. You think you’re in the land of law and order? You gotta earn what respect you’re given.”

“Only by breaking the law and pushing people around, though, right, Crowder? And these ain’t no Prohibition hills no more. There aren’t any more union battles to fight.”

“That’s because we lost them,” Boyd said darkly, looking out over the hills in the moonlight as they wound along the road back to the house, where Raylan was waiting. “Company always wins in the end and so does the fucking law and Uncle Sam. You think I don’t know that?”

“I think you want people to believe you’re one of the good ones, that you ain’t like the rest of your family, just ‘cause you’re shacking up with a damn U.S. Marshal and walking around like no gay man I’ve ever seen in my life. I’m not buying your shit, Boyd.” Mosley was breathing hard and something tripped in Boyd’s mind. 

The one good one, that’s what people used to say about Henry Crowder, a second cousin, who killed a little girl maybe five years before. He remembered Mosley, who hadn’t made Sheriff yet, was torn to pieces about it. The girl was his niece.

He met Mosley’s eyes and knew the man realized he’d made the connection. They were close to the house now so Boyd decided to say his piece and be done with it. He didn’t think he was going to get another chance to be alone with the Sheriff again.

“Well, you’d be wrong then,” Boyd said in a voice as dangerous as he dared. “I don’t give a good goddamn what people think of me. I ain’t puttin’ on no show for you or anybody else. And the only thing--I want you to pay attention, now--the _only thing_ that is keepin’ me anywhere close to _good_ is Raylan Givens. Do you understand me? If something were to happen to him, Sheriff, I really do not know what I might do.”

The look Mosley turned on him after that could have been anywhere between murderous and terrified, or some kind of amalgamation of the two. Boyd kept his gaze out the window and hoped to God he hadn’t just made things worse.

 

When they got to the house, Mosley left the vehicle before Boyd did, slamming the door and stalking up the walk to meet Raylan, who was waiting for them on the porch.

Boyd took his time, sliding his hands into his coat pockets and sauntering up to them just as Mosley seemed to have finished.

“So, you’ll both be in Lexington?” the Sheriff said, as if confirming the information rather than asking for it. Boyd didn’t like the idea that he thought he was entitled to know, let alone make sure. But Raylan nodded like it was nothing unusual and Mosley turned blindly, like a million other things were on his mind. He narrowly avoided a shoulder collision with Boyd as they passed each other, prompting Boyd to give him one last glare of pure disgust. Boyd watched Raylan watch him go.

“You sure got him riled up about somethin’,” Raylan said, looking at Boyd carefully.

Boyd kept his expression very still, unable to shake the black mood that had come over him. “He’s a liar, Raylan. We shouldn’t trust him.”

Raylan sighed, like he wasn’t surprised at all and said, “Tell me in the car. Art wants us in the office in the morning. You gotta give a statement. Might as well drive now, catch at least a few hours of sleep at the motel.”

Boyd put his face in his hands, suddenly feeling exhausted as well as inordinately angry. “Raylan--” he began, but broke off swiftly, unsure of what he was even protesting.

Raylan was up on him in the next moment, his hands pulling down Boyd’s, interlacing their fingers quickly, and leaning in close. “Hey,” he said softly. “Don’t even worry about the statement. I made it sound like a big deal because I was pissed. It happens more than you’d think and for stupider reasons than this.” 

Boyd shook his head, wanting to back away, feeling crowded in, overwhelmed. “That’s not it, Raylan. I ain’t...” he paused searching for the right way to convey what was going on with him. “I’m not in control at this moment. I may have just irreparably damaged relations with the Sheriff. There are things that I would do, terrible extremes to which I would go, in which I _want_ very badly to indulge, but I know you wouldn’t want that and I--”

He stopped talking because Raylan pushed himself those last inches forward, thrusting their lips together, pulling him closer than before. His mouth was warm and good, his tongue working fast, insistent, against Boyd’s, and he tasted like bourbon.

When Raylan pulled away, he said in a low voice and a tone that was careful, yet hard, “You think I don’t know how it feels to want those things, just ‘cause of what I do. But you know, Boyd, I’m just a kid from the holler, too. I feel that pull, the same as you. There isn’t anything I’d like to see more than you kicking the ever-loving shit out of the asshole who came into this house tonight. There isn’t anything I’d like to do more than join in. But there are always things we want and things we can’t have and tonight, those are one in the same.” 

Boyd looked at him accusingly. “That supposed to make me feel better, Raylan?”

Raylan shrugged, a carelessly indifferent motion. “Only insofar as it gets you to stop assuming my thoughts ain’t as dark as yours when provoked. It was the kiss, was supposed to make you feel better.”

Boyd finally cracked a smile at that, then licked his lips and tasted that bourbon again. “You had a drink,” he said, making it clear he wanted one too.

“I was wound up and waiting for you,” Raylan replied defensively. “I got Jack at the motel, okay?”

 

Boyd spent the car ride telling Raylan what Mosley had done at Johnny’s bar and what Johnny had told Boyd before he left.

“You think he’s chasing the wrong leads on purpose?” Raylan finally asked.

Boyd shrugged. “Can’t say one way or the other, for sure. He could just be an idiot with a grudge.”

“That’s what I was sort of hopin’,” Raylan replied with the smile he used when he was pretending not to be worried. Boyd ignored it, not wanting to start a fight, and they didn’t say much for the rest of the drive.

 

Raylan’s motel room could only be described as back-country spartan. There was wood-panelling along every wall and surface in the entire place, like a hunting lodge, but without the trophies. There was a bed and a chair and a table, a fairly clean bathroom towards the back, and something like a kitchenette with a counter, microwave and sink.

It looked as though anyone who had stayed there was just passing through. Boyd was somehow uplifted by that thought, that Raylan hadn’t bothered to make this place seem anything like home, because he had one elsewhere.

Raylan went straight to the sideboard after dropping his keys and hat unceremoniously on the table just inside the door. He poured two glasses from a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels and handed one to Boyd, who hadn’t even had a chance to take off his coat. He couldn’t say he wasn’t grateful.

“It’s about four,” Raylan said, glancing at the time on his phone. “If we go to sleep now, we can get about four hours in before Art wants us in his office.”

Boyd took a long pull from his glass, wincing as the alcohol burned hot on the way down. He shook his head at Raylan, who was looking at him with that same concerned expression he’d been laying on him since Little Sandy. “I can’t sleep, Raylan. I really don’t think I can.”

Raylan frowned at him. “You’re not even trying yet.”

Boyd just looked right back at him. He knew he didn’t need to say how tightly he was wound at that moment, he knew Raylan could tell.

Raylan gave him a wan smile and offered, beginning to remove his shirt, “Let’s just lay down, okay? See what happens.”

Boyd acquiesced with a sigh and, looking at the sparsity of the room and deciding there really wasn’t anything else to do. He finished his drink and removed his coat, followed by the rest of his clothes except his underwear.

Raylan, having done the same, climbed onto the bed alongside Boyd and they settled down together under the covers. Boyd only hesitated for a moment before he slid further down the mattress and made a pillow of Raylan’s shoulder.

They didn’t say anything for a few minutes and Boyd was still wide awake, wondering if Raylan was as far from sleep as he was, when Raylan shifted, in not quite a start, as if he’d just remembered something.

“What did you say to Mosley that you thought might fuck us over?” He asked quietly.

Boyd smiled, knowing he didn’t say it in quite those words, then sighed, really not wanting to talk about it. Instead, he thought of the night of which he was reminded in the police car, and sat up meeting Raylan’s curious eyes.

“Do you remember going to a party,” Boyd began asking, “springtime, senior year, right when playoffs began?”

“Sure,” Raylan said, then gave him a hesitant smile. “I mean, I don’t remember much of it. You were there though. And Mosley. He drove me home that night.” Raylan wasn’t looking at him anymore, his eyes growing distant. He absently rubbed at his jaw and Boyd’s teeth ground together, remembering the bruises he’d seen days later on Raylan’s skin.

“Do you remember why you left?” Boyd asked in something akin to a whisper, hushed and close.

Raylan shrugged. “I remember Mosley tellin’ me in the truck I was too drunk to stay, nothing much before that. I called him a dick but I don’t know why. I think I apologized later for that. But it’s not like it matters, Boyd, that was years ago. Why you askin’?”

“You were fine,” Boyd said defensively. “You were with me.”

“With you?” Raylan asked.

Boyd smiled. “Yeah. Those boys were practically pouring it down your throat. I got a little concerned you might not make it through the night, so I pulled you out of there, sat you down for a minute. You don’t remember that at all?”

Raylan shook his head, frowning.

Boyd shrugged, figuring if he had, they probably would have talked about it at some time or another. He continued, “We got ourselves on a first name basis and then you insulted my hair.”

Raylan looked at him like he was crazy, pulling away and staring at him earnestly. “What? Boyd, that makes no sense. I would never have said anything bad about your hair.”

“Raylan,” Boyd said, trying to suppress a laugh, seeing as the boy was taking things so seriously. “That’s hardly the issue. You just called it weird, that’s all. It is weird. You didn’t hurt my feelings.”

At that, Raylan relaxed, falling into a fit of laughter and curling himself back up into Boyd’s arms.

Boyd’s brows furrowed and he shook his head as Raylan kept laughing. “Jesus, what?”

Raylan’s smile was glorious, unfettered, as if nothing that had happened that day had touched him. He ran his hands through Boyd’s hair, which was admittedly getting quite long again. “It _is_ weird, darlin’. That’s what I love about it. Always have.”

“Well, thank you, Raylan, for clearing that up for me,” Boyd said through a grin, lifting his hand to cover Raylan’s fingers. “Would have been nice, if you’d said so when you weren’t so drunk you could barely communicate your thoughts, let alone your feelings on the matter.” 

“Woulda been nice, if you told me we’d spoken for any length of time prior to that first day in the mine, Boyd,” Raylan returned only a little stiffly.

“Guess we’re even then,” Boyd said and kissed him. 

Raylan’s hand drew down from his hair to smooth across his cheek as Boyd’s tongue entered his open mouth. They kissed slow and deep, leisurely in a way in which they rarely indulged. When Boyd became too insistent, Raylan would ease up, pull back, until Boyd slowed again. He huffed hot breath through his nose as he pushed back at Raylan, who nipped at his lip and pulled away, smiling. Boyd finally felt himself unwind just a little. 

“Why didn’t you?” Raylan asked softly to Boyd’s lips. “Tell me, I mean. It’s been so long since then, Boyd. You really felt like you needed to keep that a secret?”

Boyd knew Raylan wasn’t mad about it, he’d be more tense, his words shorter and more brutal, if he were. He was just curious. So, Boyd shrugged and answered, “Right after, it was over and done so fast, I felt like it wasn’t worth it. You didn’t remember and I mostly wanted to forget.” Raylan looked at him funny at that, but let him continue uninterrupted. “And later, after all that time, it felt like something that was only mine, something you’d barely even been a part of, but a thing that all hinged on you regardless.”

“I don’t follow.”

“I fell for you that night, Raylan.”

Raylan’s voice was very soft. “You barely knew me.”

Boyd smiled and tilted his head. “You think that made a difference? It was easy to fall in love with you, baby. The difficult thing was figuring out that’s what I’d done.”

Raylan considered him for a long moment, the gears in his mind turning, then he sat back and seemed to come to some kind of decision. 

He moved, not suddenly, but with a purpose Boyd wasn’t expecting, to straddle him at the waist and slide down the length of his body. He smiled at him, full of something muted but beautiful. He took out Boyd’s cock, smoothing loose, warm fingers from the base to the head, sending shivers up Boyd’s entire body, and bending gracefully to swallow him down.

Raylan sucked once, gently, then pulled off, drawing his tongue, wet and warm, up his length, once, twice and swallowed him again. Boyd groaned and looked down to meet Raylan’s eyes, dark and stuck fast to him, full of desire, acceptance, and the depth of their past together. 

Raylan Givens never gave the same blow job twice, and this one was unlike any other Boyd had ever received. It was slow at first, his mouth working like he was speaking unfamiliar words, trying it out on his tongue, his lips. Raylan’s fingers were around the base of Boyd’s cock, the other cradling his hip, bracing himself poised at the perfect angle. His eyes never left Boyd’s and Boyd found he couldn’t look away.

He felt himself sucked in by Raylan’s gaze, fallen far into their depths, where the only thing he could feel was Raylan’s lovely mouth and the only thing he could think of was his twenty-year-old smile. Everything else spiralled away as his pleasure mounted. His hands came up into Raylan’s hair and Raylan moaned to Boyd’s cock. 

Boyd closed his eyes, unbidden, his mind flashing a fleeting glimpse of the boy he’d known, who was so eager to leave him behind. As Raylan’s mouth kept on him, working faster, more urgently, he found it strange to reconcile that boy with the man who’d come back for him, who’d somehow realized he loved Boyd enough to walk into this den of snakes. 

“Mm gonna,” he muttered, almost beyond speech with the power of it and Raylan’s hands tightened on him, drawing his eyes back. He stared, awestruck, watching Raylan swallow his come as it passed through him, leaving him shaken, drained, and spent.

Boyd smiled, feeling giddy as Raylan pulled off and climbed up the bed, still astride him. He kissed him then, soft and open, like before, because he knew how much Boyd loved tasting himself on his lips. 

“You didn’t spit any out,” he murmured when they parted, suddenly fascinated by the contours of Raylan’s face, his neck, the curve of his ears.

“Didn’t need to,” Raylan said, and Boyd didn’t have the energy to deconstruct that statement.

“You’re so beautiful,” he replied instead and Raylan laughed at him.

“You’re exhausted, darlin’. Go to sleep.”

“You didn’t get any though,” Boyd said, his eyes feeling heavy.

“That wasn’t the point this time,” he heard Raylan answer, though his eyes had fallen shut. Boyd barely felt him settle next to him, and pull the sheets up and around them both before he drifted off.

 

Boyd woke before Raylan, starting awake from a dream he couldn’t remember. 

Raylan’s hair was brushing up against Boyd’s shoulder, a ridiculous mess left over from their activities so early that morning, though no other part of them was touching. Boyd was glad, as it seemed he could exit the bed without waking Raylan. By his calculation, they had maybe another half hour before they’d have to get up and out the door to the Marshal’s office.

Like prisons, Boyd’s only association with the offices of law enforcement--prior to his relations with Raylan--were on account of his daddy. 

Giving statements of any kind put him in mind of the days when the State Police or the Sheriff would haul him and Bowman in, for some juvenile bullshit, then interrogate them on the whereabouts or current activities of Bo. He’d always hated cops, hated their paper-thin offices and their Imma-help-you-boy smiles. 

That was, until he heard Raylan had became one. Then, he’d had to rethink the notion. He’d had a head full of conflicting thoughts on the matter the day he walked into the Given’s home after Arlo had passed. He left with certainty of a kind, though nothing like what he felt now.

As Boyd eased himself off the mattress, pulling a pair of jeans from the bag Raylan had hastily packed for them, he told himself to keep that certainty in mind when they went in today, to hold himself in check. He didn’t like where his head was at these days, he wasn’t used to riding the edge so hard anymore.

Raylan stirred after his weight was displaced, looking up blearily at Boyd. “W’time is it?” he mumbled.

“Got a half hour yet, baby,” Boyd said with a soft smile. He put a hand to Raylan’s hair, running his fingers through it until his head fell back to the pillow. “I can’t sleep no more. Gonna go get some coffee, okay?”

“Donuts,” Raylan said to the mattress and Boyd laughed on his way out the door.

Not twenty seconds later, just as Boyd reached Raylan’s car, the door of the van parked next to them slid aside and he was presented with the barrel of Sheriff Hunter Mosely’s gun. Behind his back he heard the cocking of a sawed-off shotgun. 

“Well, this is and is not quite a surprise, Sheriff,” Boyd said as he raised his hands in the air. His heart was pounding, but he didn’t feel threatened as of yet. “You gonna shoot me right here?”

Mosley looked like shit, as if he’d spent all night inside an unmarked van, making sure Raylan and Boyd hadn’t left their room without him. He also looked like he was losing it a little, his eyes were wide and glassy, his skin pale. He was a man at the end of his rope, a dangerous thing indeed.

“Naw,” a boy’s voice said behind him. “We’re gonna shoot you over your boyfriend’s dead body.”

Boyd ground his teeth. “Just remember what I said, Mosley. You’d be smarter to kill me right here, because if I escape your clutches and Raylan does not, you won’t live out the goddamn day.”

“Big words when we’re the ones got two guns on you, asshole,” the boy said.

“Turn around,” Mosley ordered, a put upon sigh in his voice.

Boyd spun slowly on his heel, hands still raised, to face the boy, who had a blood-soaked tear on the shoulder of his jacket and a white bandage peaking through his clothes. “Who is this charming young person?” Boyd asked softly, though inside he felt the sharp sear of impotent rage. 

Not only did Boyd realize now that this was the little shit who’d broken in, who’d shot at them, but he also understood Mosely had known the whole time, had been behind it from the very beginning. Every move they’d made since calling the goddamn police wasn’t just a waste of time, it was all a part some kind of sadistic charade, meant to toy with them before the slaughter that was intended would finally arrive. 

“Name’s Red,” the boy began, triumphant smirk plastered on his dirty face.

“Shut up, Red,” Mosley yelled, like he’d been doing too much of that lately.

“Hello, Red,” Boyd said, smiling slowly, and beginning to walk as Mosely pressed the barrel into his back. “If you don’t die today, I’m going to beat you bloody.”

Red’s face went slack for a moment, fighting terror that it was right for him to feel, and Mosely pressed the barrel harder. “He’s just a stupid kid,” the Sheriff said, though there was no tone of defense to his words. 

“That could be true, Mosley,” Boyd returned. “What’s your excuse?”

When they reached the door, Boyd looked over his shoulder at Mosley, who nodded, a justifiably wary expression on his face. Boyd unlocked the door and opened it slowly, he felt the barrel jab him in the back and he walked forward, hands not quite natural it his sides, eyes looking everywhere for Raylan. Mosley wasn’t over the threshold yet.

“That was fast,” Raylan said, coming from the bathroom with only his jeans on. Boyd’s eyes flicked to the gun on the dresser and Raylan’s eyes narrowed as he reached for it. His hand closed around the grip and he drew the damn thing, but he couldn’t raise it before Mosley had charged forward, grabbing fast at Boyd’s hair and pressing his gun to Boyd’s neck.

Raylan kept his hand at his side, eyes wild. Boyd saw him register Red’s presence at Mosley’s side, his chest was heaving, all his muscles tense.

“Drop your weapon, Marshal,” Mosley said.

Raylan shook his head. “I don’t think I’m gonna do that.” Then he frowned and added in an outraged tone, “Also, what the hell, Mosley? You asshole.”

“I told you he was a liar, Raylan.” Mosley’s hand tightened in his hair, the gun sinking further into his jugular. Boyd didn’t know why he said that. It seemed like a terrible idea as soon as the words left his mouth.

Raylan was unfazed. “Yeah, I heard you, Boyd, but I didn’t think he was gonna come at us with guns blazing.” Raylan looked back at Mosley, eyes sharp, brows knit down hard as he asked, “Just what in the wide world of sports did you get yourself into, son?”

Mosley stared at him dumbfounded. “Are you seriously asking me that, Raylan?”

If Raylan hadn’t been so concerned someone was going to get shot in that moment, Boyd was certain he would have rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’m fucking serious, what--just _what_ , Mosley? Christ.”

“Didn’t Elliott fucking spill it to you?” Mosley was yelling for real now, like they should have already known. “I’m workin’ for Miami. I took over Bo’s routes in exchange for Henry Crowder’s fuckin’ head!”

Raylan just blinked at him. “Shit.”

Mosley went very still and Boyd could hear Red shifting around, like he was looking for something destructive to do. “We didn’t hear that, did we, Raylan?” Boyd finally said after no one spoke for a moment. “We can forget we ever heard it. Can’t we, Raylan?”

Raylan met Boyd’s eyes and Boyd swallowed from a dry throat. Of course not. Mosley started to laugh.

“You went after me, because you heard Elliott said something to me. And you didn’t know what it was,” Raylan said, as if everyone hadn’t realized just a moment before. “Hunter, you’re gonna cry. All that idiot told me was not to tell Arnett he’d got out. I didn’t know who fuckin’ sprung him. I didn’t really care.”

“Raylan, baby, I feel like the direction this conversation has taken, isn’t really gonna help us in the long run,” Boyd said, sensing a growing tension in the Sheriff behind him, in the grip he had on his hair, the way the gun was turned to his skin.

“It’s really not,” Mosley said through hysterical laughter, high and wheezing. That kid was still moving around. “Red, you hold that weapon steady on the Marshal,” the Sheriff reminded him.

Raylan’s eyes flashed and his grip on his weapon grew tighter. His mouth was turned down in the tiniest of frowns and Boyd understood he’d just gone from put out and angry to seriously pissed.

“What are you doin’, bringing Boyd into it?” Raylan demanded, eyes blazing. “He doesn’t know anything about this.” Which was a lie, since Raylan had told him specifically the only piece of information he’d known about the matter. But Raylan didn’t bat an eyelash and kept on, saying, “You could have let him go on for that coffee, come in here and shot me in bed. Not much except a rusty lock and spit stopping that door from being broken down.”

Boyd closed his eyes, his stomach turning over as Mosley replied, “Well, I would have, Raylan. I try not to be cruel, in addition to a mafia flunkie and a goddamn murderer, but your boyfriend here told me, in no uncertain terms, if you died he’d go on a fucking rampage with me at the top of his hit list. Said you were the only thing keeping him on the right side of the law.”

When he opened them, he met Raylan’s eyes and couldn’t decipher what kind of truth his boy saw in them. He would have told Raylan last night when he asked, and he would have lied then, to himself as well, and said he’d only meant to scare the Sheriff. But they’d gotten distracted and Boyd had missed his chance. The truth, at gunpoint and at the end of everything, was that Boyd had no notion of what he would do and it put more fear in him than God or the Devil ever had.

“All right, then. What do you think shooting us is gonna get you, Hunter?” Raylan asked, looking back to Boyd’s captor, in a low, almost reasonable voice. “You shoot a Marshal, and his... significant other... in their motel room? Even if they don’t get prints off where your... friend here has touched the doorknob, how long ‘fore they connect you to our investigation? Even if you didn’t file no paperwork, I told my boss we were workin’ with you. Johnny Crowder knows you and Boyd went to his bar. You were the last person we’d seen. How you think that’s gonna look?”

Mosley laughed. “I’ll be gone by then.”

“Oh, a life on the run, that should be just peachy, right?”

“Raylan,” Boyd said in warning, but Raylan’s eyes were on the boy.

“I don’t think we need to talk about this no more,” Red said and Boyd just knew he was aiming that shotgun high at Raylan’s head. He was inexperienced enough to think he’d have to actually aim with a scatter shot barrel like that. 

Boyd saw Raylan adjust his stance, the boy saw it too and, as Mosley shouted at him to wait, Red fired but Raylan was already halfway to the ground and the shot was too high and a little wide. 

Boyd threw his hands up, in the same moment, scrabbling hard at Mosley’s grip, pushing and craning his neck away. The barrel was at his ear, pointing to the ceiling, when Mosley’s finger squeezed the trigger and everything after that was drowned in a high, hollow, ringing, that made Boyd wonder if it was death coming at him slow. It was crushingly, maddeningly loud.

Something stretched to breaking within Boyd as he watched Raylan’s controlled fall spin out wildly, and he dropped to the floor hard, blood spraying across the carpet and the wall behind him. It seemed that something could not be mended, even as he saw Raylan twist himself around, despite all that blood, moving easily and raising his gun swiftly from the floor. 

He had taken out Red by the time Boyd could stumble out of the way, feeling worryingly disoriented and praying to the Almighty that Raylan hadn’t just died in front of him and he’d lost his mind trying to process it. Raylan aimed again then, surreally fast, as Boyd watched feeling hot and horrifically eager for another death, but Mosley dropped the gun and sank to his knees. 

Unable to let it stop, Boyd snatched the weapon up, thinking only of murder and missed opportunity, that Raylan’s blood was spread across the room, and strode over to the Sheriff. 

He cocked the weapon again and thrust the barrel into the man’s temple, leaning in close and saying, “How do you like it, asshole?” in what could have been a whisper or a shout. Everything was muted, but deafening, the world was tinged in red. Every part of Boyd but his right hand was shaking with the vibration of that ringing in his head, with that loss so narrowly avoided. “You think surrender will bring you mercy?”

He couldn’t hear Raylan shouting his name, but he knew he would be, he felt it somehow, and looked up to see a contingent of U.S. Marshals poised at the door of the room, weapons in hand, staring at him, pointing at him. Art Mullen was saying something, but he couldn’t hear it, nor did he care to. He wondered, fleetingly, how they’d even known to come, but the thought didn’t stick with him long. He knew his chance had just passed, even if he was uncertain that he’d truly desired to take it.

Boyd put the gun down slowly and backed away. He didn’t stop walking back until he hit the wall next to the bed. It should have been hard and solid, but it was vibrating too. He looked at Raylan, who was standing now, staring back at him, wide-eyed, shaken. He was talking to Art, saying words that Boyd couldn’t hear at all, glancing every so often at Mosley. The scatter shot had got Raylan at the shoulder, just over to the edge of his collarbone. 

It was a bloody mess. Boyd couldn’t take his eyes off it.

The wound was dripping, slowly, down Raylan’s bare arm in long, thick tendrils, like monstrous fingers reaching to pull him away. Boyd didn’t understand why no one was taking care of it. Raylan was just standing there, talking at them, shirtless and butchered. They were acting like that was normal, like it wasn’t anything at all. 

He must have said something, his lips felt like they’d just formed words, but he was sure he hadn’t put them there. Everything was still ringing, high and keening intensely, and he could barely hear himself think. They were staring at him again and he knew that was wrong, because Raylan’s arm was still dripping. The blood was down at his fingers now, about to pile more stains on the goddamn carpet. They should have been helping him.

Art said something to Rachel, who smiled weakly at Boyd and started to move towards him. Raylan shook his head immediately, saying something with real concern in his eyes and putting a hand on Rachel’s arm--the hand that wasn’t stained red. 

Art called over a man in a dark windbreaker. They gave Raylan a towel and he mopped up his own blood, while the man prepared a large bandage, then laid it over Raylan’s shoulder and wrapped it slowly in gauze and tape. Raylan had his eyes on Boyd the entire time.

After they’d finished, when Raylan approached, he did it slow, and Boyd’s brows furrowed, still looking at the bandage. It wasn’t really stopping the blood. Boyd could see it start to seep through already. It was dark and insidious behind that bone white bandage, almost grotesque. 

“That’s not enough,” he thought he said. The ringing hadn’t really lessened.

He didn’t reach for Raylan when his boy walked up close to him. For some reason, his arms couldn’t raise themselves up. Raylan tilted his head, looking into Boyd’s eyes and frowning at what he seemed to see there. He raised his hand up to Boyd’s ear, touching him lightly. 

Raylan’s fingers came away bloody and Boyd stared at that until Raylan’s other hand cupped his chin, drawing his eyes away. He leaned in to his other ear and said, though his voice sounded soft and real far away, “I know, Boyd. We’re gonna take a ride to the hospital. They gotta pick the buckshot out of me.”

At mention of the hospital, Boyd felt himself stiffen, terrified. He tried to whisper, “You’re not dead, are you?” because he still wasn’t sure it all wasn’t a terrible lie, wasn’t sure he hadn’t lost his damn mind along with Raylan on the blood-stained floor. How had Raylan raised that gun so fast? How had the Marshals even known to come?

Raylan’s hand came around the back of his head and Boyd wanted to push him away, certain of absolutely nothing, until he said, still low, but somehow audible, “No, darlin’. I’m right here. It’s all right, Boyd. I think you’re in shock.”

Boyd might have laughed at that, but it got lost in the din. His lips formed words, accompanied by a bitter smile, “Who do you think you’re talkin’ to, boy?”

Raylan took a step back, smiling ruefully and keeping his hand on Boyd’s neck, clearly ready to get out of the room. Boyd saw they were pulling Mosley to his feet. His hands were behind his back and Boyd thought what a change that must be, what a hell prison would be for the man.

The realization hit him so hard then, a split second later, that his vision flashed white and his heart leaped up into his throat so fast he could gag on it. He slipped through Raylan’s grip, sinking fast to the floor.

“Boyd,” Raylan cried, distress coming clear through all that ringing. Boyd could barely hold up his head anymore and Raylan’s hands were on either side of his face. 

“They’re gonna let Daddy out now, Raylan,” he said, not sure at what volume. He felt numb and cold and he thought he could hear the pounding of his daddy’s fist on that glass through the tumult in his head. 

The Marshals, who’d come forward at Raylan’s tone, stopped short and stared at him. He thought perhaps Art swore. 

“They’re gonna let him out.”


	4. Take Cover Behind the Wreckage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raylan deals with the aftermath of what went down in his motel room in the form of an AUSA, an old flame, and Ava Crowder. He also loves Boyd a lot then lies to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to extra special betas thornfield_girl and engage_protocol, you ladies are the best!

When Raylan came in to the office after taking a few days for his shoulder, in a sling now to help the muscles knit back together where the buckshot ripped through, he came face to face with AUSA David Vasquez, a not-quite-greasy-looking lawyer he’d worked with before on a few cases.

“Hey, Raylan,” Vasquez said as they both reached his desk at the same time. He had a smile on his face that could be described as strained, except that was how it looked most of the time Raylan saw him, like constantly reaching for something, confidence or reassurance or whatever, was just par for the course with him.

“Vasquez,” Raylan said into his coffee. It had been a long drive from Harlan that morning, mostly because of the ache in his shoulder. He’d left Boyd with a hammer in his hand and a determined look on his face. He was trying not to worry too much.

“So, I just came from Art’s office,” the man said. “I was letting him know, Bo Crowder’s release has been set for next week, early on Monday. There isn’t anything I can do. With all of Sheriff Mosley’s arrests now under question--”

Raylan sighed. “Yeah, I know. We knew that the day it happened.” He drew a finger across his brow, rubbing a little between his eyes. The painkillers they gave him weren’t enough to make him loopy, but he was damn tired all the time and his shoulder still ached like it used to after long batting practice, the difference here was it didn’t go away after a stretch and a run. “A week, huh?”

Vasquez grimaced. “Yeah. Uh, listen Raylan. There’s one other thing. The statement you gave, after the shooting, I was gonna use some facts for my report on this case. Why it is Crowder’s a danger to you--”

“Bo Crowder,” Raylan said automatically.

“Yeah,” Vasquez agreed immediately and looked away then back at him. 

Raylan took off his hat and threw it on his desk in frustration at himself more than anything. He knew Vasquez understood which Crowder they were and were not talking about, he’d read the damn file. 

“Sorry, I just noticed, you never explicitly stated why, uh, Boyd Crowder was anywhere near your motel room, when he’d got there, or how long it had been. If you’ve got the time right now, we can get that taken care of, real quick.” Vasquez was visibly uncomfortable about the subject and Raylan looked at him, unsure if it was because he was weirded out, or because Raylan was so obviously against talking anymore about the matter.

He rubbed at his face again. “Sure,” he said and tried to smile at Vasquez. “I got time now. We can go in the conference room if you want.”

“Let me just get the reporter,” Vasquez said. When Raylan gave him a questioning look, he clarified, “The court reporter. She owes me a favor and it’s faster than typing out my messy scrawl later.”

Raylan went into the room with his coffee and sat, head tilted back and legs stretched out, until Vasquez returned. When he did, he had a leggy blonde trailing behind him, carrying her stenotype with her. Vasquez was helping her set it up on the far end of the table as Raylan roused himself. The AUSA looked him up and down then said, “You look like shit, man. You sure you’re supposed to be back already?”

“I gotta sort out the shooting paperwork,” Raylan sighed, leaning his elbows on the table as Vasquez sat down opposite him. “The stuff from the night before the thing at the motel.”

Vasquez raised his eyebrows. “What do you mean? You gave the Sheriff’s office that statement didn’t you?”

“Boyd fired my weapon. The issued one. I gotta file all that shit, since it was my gun. Art wants it soon because HQ takes it pretty seriously. Also...” he trailed off there, deciding almost too late not to mention that watching Boyd trying to sort out his own shit was driving him up the damn wall. He’d been running his mouth too much since they had him on these painkillers. He wished he hadn’t agreed so readily to give the statement right away.

“You mind going through it again with me?” Vasquez asked. “In the interest of clarity for the night’s events. It’ll be easier on us if we establish a timeline here, and a connection to Bo.”

Raylan frowned. “I don’t see how the first shooting, or the second really, has any bearing on the shit with Bo.”

“But Boyd’s actions in the motel room do. We’re talking about a frame of mind here, Raylan, caused by Bo Crowder. If--”

Raylan cut him off there. “Fine,” he said, nodding curtly and glancing at the reporter, who hadn’t yet put her fingers on the keys. “I get you.” Then he smiled and said, “Boyd’s gonna be pissed if any of this ever makes it into a courtroom.”

“He won’t be if it helps put his father back in prison,” Vasquez replied.

The reporter cleared her throat, looking wide-eyed back and forth at them both. “Would you like me to be recording this?”

Vasquez shook his head. “Sorry, no. We haven’t started yet.” He looked up at her from his papers and blinked, saying, “Oh, right. I’m so sorry. Raylan, have you met Winona? She started a few weeks back, I wasn’t sure if you’d worked together yet.”

Winona smiled and suddenly Raylan was taken back to one of the only seedy bars in Salt Lake, back to a pretty girl with a pool cue and a Kentucky accent, barely more than a week before Raylan went home for his father’s funeral.

“Shit.” The curse fell out of his mouth before he could hold it back.

“What?” Vasquez said, alarm in his tone. Raylan did successfully stop himself from groaning.

Winona’s smile grew bigger. “Recognized me, did you?”

Vasquez’s anxiety only seemed to grow. “You two know each other? Tell me this isn’t a conflict of interest. I can’t get another reporter on short notice.”

“Taking advantage of the new girl?” Winona asked with that sly smile Raylan remembered. He’d only seen her once after he’d come back from Boyd. He’d told himself at the time he just wasn’t looking for anything. “No,” she said, looking at Raylan. “We met a long time ago. Just a few times. I don’t know this man at all.”

Raylan was suddenly struck with the desire to apologize to her, but he knew that would be wildly inappropriate. He realized a split second later that she was about to get to know him extremely well.

“Okay, then,” Vasquez said. “Let’s not waste any more time.”

The AUSA took Raylan through in stages, asking his name, his position, a rundown of the events at the motel, before finally asking, “When did Boyd Crowder arrive at your motel room?”

“With me,” Raylan said, then added, “we arrived together from Harlan at four that morning. Hours earlier, our house had been broken into. We were fired upon by a masked assailant, who was later revealed to be Sheriff Mosley’s accomplice.”

“Did you hear verbal evidence of that?”

“The evidence will come out in the post-mortem and the from the crime lab,” Raylan replied darkly.

“So, Boyd Crowder lives in your house in Harlan? As your tenant?”

Raylan could feel himself making a face. “No, as my boyfriend,” he was surprised how easily it came out that time. He must be getting practice. Winona’s hands had slowed, but she looked back down at the stenotype when he raised his eyes to hers. “We’ve been together for five years,” Raylan wasn’t sure why he bothered to continue, but it seemed like an appropriate thing to record. “We’ve been living together just over six months, since I returned to Kentucky. The house in Harlan is my primary address and his.”

“And why did you both come in to Lexington to stay in your secondary address at the motel?”

Raylan answered as clearly as he could, though he might have taken longer than strictly necessary, fumbling and glossing over some of the shadier details, like how angry Boyd had been, the shit between Mosley and Johnny, and how he’d found out later Boyd had threatened the Sheriff. He did include that Boyd had been to see his father quite recently, that the man was displeased with his son, and that fact had informed Boyd’s state of mind before and after they’d arrested Mosley.

“So, you would assert that the idea of his father being released from prison sent Boyd into a state of emotional confusion and shock?” 

Raylan shook his head. “No,” he replied emphatically. “A gun was fired a centimeter away from Boyd’s ear. He thought, in all the confusion, he’d seen me murdered in front of him. He was deaf and disoriented and already in shock by the time anyone could think about his daddy. The thought of Bo being released from prison just knocked the wind further out of him. He wouldn’t...” Raylan paused to take a breath. 

Sure, it would have sounded great for the case to say Boyd had been so terrified of the idea of his Daddy coming after them that he’d near gone out of his mind, but Boyd would never stand for a lie like that and it made Raylan feel sick to even think about perpetuating it.

He thought, then, about how Boyd had said he didn't remember anything after watching Raylan's arm get bandaged up from the buckshot and Raylan believed him. 

After he'd fallen to the floor in the motel room, thrust into some kind of panic attack at the thought of his daddy leaving prison three years early, Boyd had spent the ride to the hospital huddling in a blanket they’d thrown over his shoulders. He’d looked at Raylan a few times like he was staring into the face of a ghost, holding himself stiff and far off to the other side of the back seat of Art’s car, until Raylan said, “Boyd, I can’t take you lookin’ at me like that anymore. I ain’t dead, okay?” 

He sort of nodded like he got it, but fell later into alternate bouts of blank silence and soft murmurings of things like, “How did they get here so fast?” as if he still wasn’t sure any of it was real, and "If you'd died, Raylan, I don't know what I would do," like he couldn't even contemplate it, like it was too horrific a thought to entertain. 

The only thing Raylan could do was talk to him softly, answering his questions in a steady tone, “Someone called in a gunshot to local PD. They knew it was my address,” and “I’m right here, Boyd. You don’t have to do anything.”

It wasn’t until after they arrived at the ER, and the doctors were pulling Raylan towards a triage room, that Boyd made any move to touch him. After that, he held on tight.

“Boyd’s not the type to crumble at any kind of threat,” he finally said. “I’m not a doctor, so I don’t even know why you’re asking me this, but I can tell you, Boyd was-- _is_ \--scared of his father. Any sane person in his position would be. But it was what happened to me--almost happened--that set him off like that. I assume you have his medical chart from after the scene?”

Vasquez shrugged. “ER doctors aren’t in the habit of questioning their patients too deeply on the reason for the physical manifestations of their psychological trauma.”

“Well, you’d be hard pressed to convince Boyd to go see a therapist,” Raylan responded. “Though I’m also little hard pressed to see how any of this would ever be useful to you in court.”

“Well, Raylan, if you could convince him to just come down and give a statement on what passed between Boyd and his father in the visitor’s room at Little Sandy, we’d have at least some indication that a threat to his life or yours has been made. You’ve said before that either is likely. Art Mullen’s about to tear what little hair he has left out of his head over this.”

Raylan pursed his lips. “You want me to call Boyd on the phone, have him tell you direct it’s nobody’s business but theirs?” He pulled out his cell just to be a jackass, though he was just as conflicted over the matter himself. He knew why Boyd didn’t want that shit out there, and he knew why Art and Vasquez did. Usually, the pull to side with the Harlan way of looking at things wasn’t set so deep in him that he couldn’t ignore it.

Vasquez glared at him until Raylan put the phone away, trying not to smirk. Then he said, “I have just one more thing to go over, if that’s okay with you, Deputy.”

Raylan nodded, grimacing at the use of his title. He didn’t feel like a Marshal in that room at that moment. He felt like a kid from the county, like he didn’t want to tell them anything anymore. “Go on,” he said with what might have been a surly tinge to his voice.

“To your knowledge, has Boyd Crowder, who you’ve been living with for some time, and known for many years, ever given you indication of his participation in criminal activity?” Vasquez looked him straight in the eye as he asked.

Raylan glared at the slippery bastard and worked his jaw for a moment. He knew what Vasquez was up to with this. If he established here that he knew nothing about Boyd being involved in anything, he’d be at least somewhat protected if Boyd was ever arrested on any kind of charge. There was no way Raylan could refuse to answer and not look bad.

He pulled his hands into helpless little fists and reminded himself this was why he always tried to be as unhelpful as possible around lawyers, even government ones. “No, Boyd Crowder has never informed me either directly or indirectly of any criminal behavior in which he may or may not have engaged. I have no knowledge of it, at all.” 

Raylan paused and let how pissed he was show on his face and in the definite note of sarcasm in his tone, “You want to know if I hold him when he cries?”

“And, I think we’re done here,” Vasquez said, turning to Winona. “Thanks very much for your time with this.”

Winona turned her big eyes on Raylan as she replied, “It’s no problem.”

“Great,” Vasquez said to his paperwork and turned to leave. “I’ll talk to you soon about this, Raylan.”

Raylan watched Winona put the stenotype back in it’s box and straighten up her own papers. He waited a few beats before he said, “I seem to remember you sayin’ you’d never go back to Kentucky. That was one of the things I liked about you.”

She looked up and smiled again. Raylan really did like that smile. She looked older, obviously, than she had six years ago, but it sat well with her. She was still one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen. “My mother was ill,” she replied. “I came home to help her.”

“I’m sure sorry to hear that,” he murmured and she thanked him.

Winona tilted her head then and said, “I seem to remember you saying just the same, Raylan.” 

“My father died,” Raylan replied, shrugging. “I had to come back for the funeral, just a week after we met.” He was fiddling with the broken lip of his drained coffee cup.

She walked towards him, a curious look on her face. “And that was when you... reconnected with Boyd?”

Raylan just smiled and she nodded, licking her lips. “I always thought, ‘I’m not looking for anything serious’ was sort of a cop out on your part. I wasn’t either. I just wanted to have sex with you,” she said and met his eyes. “Lots and lots of sex.”

It was on the tip of Raylan’s tongue to admit to her that even he hadn’t had any idea how bad he was gone for Boyd at that time, but luckily or not, his phone rang at that moment, vibrating loudly where he’d left it on the table.

He looked at the number, recognizing it as a Harlan one, but unknown to him and answered, “Givens.” He put a hand up to Winona, silently asking her to wait a minute. She raised her brows but didn’t walk away.

“Raylan?” A hesitant voice came over the line.

“Ava?” Raylan asked. “Where are you calling from?”

He heard her sniff, like she’d been crying and he saw red in the direction of Bowman for a split second before she answered, “From the station, Raylan. I, ah, shot Bowman this morning. He’s dead. They-they said I could call someone and I... couldn’t think of anyone but you who’d care.”

Raylan felt a weird sinking sensation as he digested her words, and he would have grabbed at the table, had he not been holding the phone with his only free hand. He saw out of the corner of his eye, Winona looking at him like she was real concerned about something, so he turned around and leaned up against the table, almost sitting on it, to make sure he kept his balance. He decided in that moment he was off the painkillers today.

“Okay,” he said calmly, but with his head bent low, wishing he could rub a tired palm across his eyes. “Ava, I can’t get there. I’m in Lexington. I’m gonna call Boyd for you--”

“No, don’t,” she cried immediately. “He’s gonna--”

“Ava, don’t be an idiot. Whatever you’re thinkin’, he’s not gonna do or say it. He’s gonna help you, all right? He loves you, honey. And you think he gives a shit about his brother after last time?” 

Raylan looked up to see Winona, wide-eyed and backing away from him. She pointed towards the door and said quietly, “I’m just gonna go. I’m so, so sorry.”

He frowned at her, but couldn’t do anything else other than nod. He was still reeling, just realizing he had to be the one to tell Boyd his brother was dead.

Ava sniffed again and cried, “I don’t know, Raylan. It’s his goddamn brother.”

Raylan shook his head, like she was going to see it over the line. “Ava, Bo’s getting out next week. We should have told you before, but... shit. You have to let Boyd help you, okay?”

“I thought he wasn’t supposed to get out for years,” her voice came over hushed, terrified. 

“Something happened. Let Boyd tell you, I’m gonna call him. You’re at the station down in town?”

“Yeah, they’re holding me here.” He heard her take a settling breath. “No one seems too upset about it.”

Raylan almost snorted. Of course, no one was upset. Not a soul in Harlan thought Ava deserved to be with that asshole, and no one was going to judge her for taking matters into her own hands. He only wished she had asked for help before deciding to do it in such a fashion. “Boyd will be there,” he said. “Just sit tight.”

She agreed and he clicked off the phone, opening it a moment later to dial Boyd’s number.

As it was ringing, Art swung open the glass door, stuck his head and shoulder in, and told him, “Rachel needs the room.” He pumped his thumb out the door in a get-out-of-here motion.

Raylan drew his lips into a thin line. “You hear about Bowman?” he asked, noticing the hard look in Art’s eyes.

“Tim caught it over the scanner,” Art responded.

“I gotta tell Boyd,” Raylan said, hearing the strain in his own voice.

Art swore and said, “You can tell him in my office,” on his way out of the room, just as Boyd answered finally. 

Boyd’s voice came over the line clear and easy as Raylan followed Art in, “Tell me what? You’re lucky I heard this thing ring. I had it on the table in the kitchen.” Boyd sounded fine, preoccupied even, and Raylan closed his eyes, leaning against the wall next to the door, sorry to have to destroy whatever relief he’d found in home improvement in the hours since Raylan had left.

“So, you’re sitting down?” Raylan asked. He met Art’s eyes. The man was standing over his desk, looking hard at Raylan. He motioned to the couch as if saying, “You might want to do that, too.”

“No, I was getting a big ol’ glass of water,” Boyd answered and Raylan could hear the smile in his voice, indulgent for a change toward Raylan’s increasingly protective side. “Now, I’m sitting down. What is it? Did my daddy get his release?”

Of course, Boyd would think it was that. Raylan sighed again, leaning back against the cushions of the couch. His arm felt heavy in the sling and his shoulder was starting to itch like crazy instead of just ache. “Yeah, he did. Next Monday. But Boyd, that’s not...”

Art was sitting down at his desk now, his hand on the mouse of his computer, like he was actually doing work or something. Raylan didn’t buy it and he gave the man a death glare, wondering why the hell he thought he needed to hear this conversation. Art caught Raylan’s stare and matched it evenly for a few seconds then went back to pretending not to listen.

“Raylan, baby,” Boyd said after that moment of silence, clearly confused. “You think I’m gonna lose it over this? We already knew. At least we got the date now. At least we got some time to--”

Raylan made himself say it all in a rush, staring at the floor and not at Art as he did. “Boyd, your brother’s dead. Ava shot him. I don’t know the details, but she’s at the station in town. You need to get there, and for her sake, you need to not look like you’re upset. I’m gonna take care of some stuff here and then I’ll come home as soon as I can.”

The silence at the other end of the line stretched out for fucking centuries, so long, in fact that Raylan couldn’t stop himself from saying, “Boyd?” just to make sure he hadn’t dropped the phone.

“What do you mean I can’t be upset, Raylan? Jesus, she shot him?” Boyd’s voice was hushed, and certainly unsettled, but Raylan was sure he didn’t hear grief there.

“I know,” Raylan replied.

“Why didn’t she ask us for help?” The anger was evident in Boyd’s tone, strangled and helpless. “We could have--”

“I know, darlin’,” Raylan interrupted. He felt the guilt over that rise up in him fast and chokingly. “But Boyd, you can’t show her you’re mad--”

“The hell I can’t, Raylan. No way she needed to do that by herself.”

“Boyd, she won’t take it well. You think she’s in her right mind right now? She asked me not to call you.” Art shifted in his seat and Raylan looked up at him as he spoke. There was real worry in his boss’ eyes and Raylan just didn’t know what to do with that at all, despite the fact that he’d been met with this particular expression from Art at least three quarters of the time they spent together over the last week.

“She did what?” There was hurt now in Boyd’s tone and Raylan didn’t know what to do with that either. He knew Boyd spent more time with Ava than Raylan had lately. Because he’d been off work a lot more, he’d had a little bit of time to come by Ava’s when Bowman was gone. He’d been helping her with some house stuff under the guise of a cheap handyman she’d told Bowman she’d hired.

“She’s not thinking, darlin’. She just shot a man. You,” he slowed, looking at Art, but went on, “know what that’s like. I told her you’d be there soon. She shouldn’t have to do the rest of this on her own.”

Boyd sighed. “You’re right. Okay, I’m out the door. Baby, when you gonna be back here?”

“Tonight, I hope,” Raylan said, raising his brows at Art. “I’ll take the time off, if I have to.”

Boyd laughed, but it was a humorless sound, brittle and sad. “And here I thought maybe we could take a vacation this year.”

Raylan snorted. “Whatever gave you that idea?” Boyd didn’t say anything else for a second and Raylan closed his eyes, taking a plunge that never should have been so long coming. “I love you, darlin’. I’ll be there soon.”

Boyd really did laugh now. “Oh, Raylan,” he said softly. “You know me.”

“I do.”

When Raylan hung up the phone, carelessly snapping it shut one-handed, he kept his eyes closed for a moment, steeling himself before he opened them to meet Art’s suitably concerned look.

“You sure you boys are okay?” He asked the question, still facing his computer, with his little reading glasses down on his nose and Raylan thought the man had never looked older in his life. 

“Yeah,” he agreed automatically. He felt a stab of guilt for putting Art through everything he had in the past few days, and for continuing to bring his personal shit into the office.

He thought of what Art had said to him in the car, when they were driving towards the hospital and Boyd was staring frighteningly off into space as Raylan finally started to feel light-headed from blood-loss. He’d said, “Shouldn’t be surprised, putting you back in where you sprouted, Raylan. I always knew you were all kinds of trouble, even back in Glynco. I saw that boy and I knew he was trouble too, and that was before I found out who he is, or was anyway. You two are peas in a pod. I really shouldn’t be surprised.”

Raylan had said then, “You actually surprised, Art? Or you jus’ tryin’ to make me feel bad?”

Art had his eyes on the road, but his voice was stern when he answered, “You only get to feel bad about shit that’s your fault. That goes for him too. Jesus Christ, Raylan. Nobody picks where they come from.” Then he started muttering almost inaudibly about boys being so goddamned frightened of their daddies and men still living in the damn nineteenth century.

And that was really all Raylan needed to hear. 

When they got to the hospital and Boyd clamped his hand in a grip like a vice on Raylan’s unbloodied forearm, refusing silently to let go, Raylan had looked to Art, who stood frowning on the other side of a row of white-clad doctors and pink-scrubbed nurses, and said, “You wanna tell them that absolutely no one wants to see him really lose it over this?”

Not even Raylan at that point had any idea what Boyd would do. Art seemed to get that, so he pulled what looked like the head doctor aside, talking quickly, pointing between them and flashing his star. They took them to the same exam room.

Boyd had sat next to him and watched, riveted, as a surgeon pulled all the buckshot from Raylan’s shoulder. They examined Boyd, asked him questions that he barely answered, and said that he needed to just calm down on his own, that there wasn’t anything they could do but pump drugs into him that he probably didn’t really need.

They got frowns from a few people coming in and out, probably because after Boyd’s grip on him loosened, Raylan’s free hand crept up somehow to hold on to the back of Boyd’s neck and eventually pull him close, his forehead falling down to rest on Raylan’s good shoulder. When the resident came in to measure him for the sling, she glanced between them and said, “Your boss alleges you two are brothers?”

Boyd had lifted his head at that and glared darkly at the girl, who looked both startled and chastised. “Yes,” Raylan said tiredly, having trouble thinking through the painkillers they’d pumped into him. “Brothers. That’s us.” And Boyd put his head back down.

When Art came by later to check on them, Raylan tried to put together a reasonable thank you and he was waved off with little fanfare. They’d put him in a bed to wait for something, he couldn’t really remember, and Boyd was in a chair pulled as close as possible to it, his head buried in his arms and Raylan’s lap. The look Art gave him was somewhat reminiscent of a few he’d received from Helen recently, when he said, “Shit, Raylan, I didn’t know the boy loved you like that.”

Raylan was pretty sure he just choked in response, but he remembered Boyd turned his head to look at Art and Raylan just knew he was smiling like a fool. 

Soon after that, he was tired enough he curled himself up around Boyd a little more, despite Art’s lingering presence in the room, and dozed off. He slept until Helen arrived to get them, as neither he nor Boyd were in any condition to drive.

Now, Raylan wasn’t over the moon that Art had seen Boyd like that, but he did like that there wasn’t any more question about Boyd’s suitability or presence in Raylan’s life.

In the aftermath of Boyd’s intense reaction to the danger he’d been in, Raylan had realized, perhaps belatedly, and was still coming to terms with the fact, that if he had died, or if he were to at any time in the future, Boyd would have absolutely nothing.

The house wouldn’t be his. He wouldn’t have that support, would have to go back to the mine, full-time, if he even chose to continue with legitimate employment. Sure, Helen would be there for him, and certainly Ava as well, but the question remained, would he take their help? Would he be capable of that or would he be somehow beyond it? 

Raylan thought about how he hadn’t denied what Mosley had said, that Boyd had as good as promised a man death if something were to happen to him. Raylan didn’t know what he could do to stop it. He remembered Boyd that morning, getting ready to begin whatever he was doing to the damn house, and he decided at least he could try and let that be something Boyd could hold onto, if he had to. He’d have to will it to him.

Raylan blinked and saw Art was still staring at him. “You know any good lawyers?” he asked, leaning forward and propping his elbows on his knees.

Art shook his head and grumbled, “You know, that’s really not very reassuring, son.”

Raylan pulled himself to his feet, rubbing the back of his neck. “Nevermind,” he said. “It’s nothin’, Art.”

As he turned to go, Art called after him, “Hang on a minute, Raylan. One other thing.”

Raylan turned back and raised his eyebrows at his boss, fitting his uninjured hand into his back pocket.

Art was looking at him real sternly and Raylan suddenly knew what was coming. “Under no circumstances,” Art said, jabbing a finger in Raylan’s direction, “are you to go up to Little Sandy on Monday, Raylan. There is absolutely no need for you to be there. I know you can swing it and I know that you want to, because you’re an idiot. But I am telling you, no. Do not do that.”

Raylan put on an innocent face, or his very best attempt, and waved Art off, promising he wouldn’t. He spent the next couple hours slogging through the damn paperwork as fast as his brain would let him and was out the door and on his way to Harlan by four. 

 

It was dark by the time Raylan arrived at home, the days were growing shorter as fall passed them by. He saw Boyd’s truck in the drive and came into the house quietly, not sure exactly what to expect.

He was surprised, in an unexpectedly pleasant way, to see Boyd and Ava sitting together on the couch they’d pulled out of storage, now that Boyd had most of the drywall back up in the living room. The room was dark, only illuminated by the light over the oven coming in from down the hall. The radio from the kitchen was on the floor, plugged into the far wall and playing bluegrass in from Lexington. 

Boyd had a bourbon in his hand and Ava’s head pillowed in his lap. He watched Raylan come in quietly and lean against the doorframe to the room. His eyes were watchful, but tired, and his free hand was in Ava’s hair. She was sleeping, or passed out by the look of the nearly empty bottle at Boyd’s feet, and she had one hand twisted up in Boyd’s shirt and the other dangling to the floor.

Raylan looked at the bottle and then met Boyd’s eyes. He moved silently from the doorway, coming up slow to bend over Boyd and kiss him softly on the lips. Boyd breathed a long sigh into him, like he’d been holding it until Raylan came home, and Raylan put his hand to his cheek. 

Boyd’s face was raised up to him when their lips parted and Raylan gave him a look as he toed the bottle on the floor, making it clink hollowly. “I didn’t have the heart to take it away from her,” Boyd murmured. “Not today.”

Raylan kissed him again in response, not really prepared or inclined to say anything about it, as Ava stirred, groaning a little and looking up at them. 

“Don’t mind me,” she grumbled. “Uh huh, jus’ go on, makin’ out much as y’please.”

Raylan smiled at her and said, “You’re lucky I trust him so much, honey. Somebody else might not be so welcoming, come home to a man with a woman’s head in his lap.”

She giggled drunkenly and rolled over onto her back to look into his eyes. “Lucky,” she said and laughed breathlessly. “Yessir, that’s me.”

Boyd set his glass down, shifting too, as Raylan grimaced and said, “Okay, come on.”

He slipped off the sling, handing it to Boyd, who said, “Raylan, I don’t know...”

Raylan had her up in his arms, hers curling around his neck, eyes closing and lungs breathing heavy sighs, as he replied, “I can have it off for a little while. You gonna get her upstairs?”

Boyd shook his head, shifting again stiffly, like he needed to get the feeling back into his legs. 

Raylan turned and started toward the stairs, actually a bit worried about his aching shoulder. He did have most of her weight on his right side, but he wasn’t about to take too many chances with healing up fast.

Ava had her face pressed to his neck, breathing hot against his collar. She twisted a little and spoke softly, still slurring into his ear. “You ‘member when y’came home, Raylan?”

“Mhmm,” he responded, thinking more about not missing any of the steps on his way up.

She laughed and he cringed, it was a little loud and distressingly bitter. “I thought,” she got out between hiccups that were rapidly turning into something close to sobs. “I thought you was gonna save me, Raylan.”

He heard a thump behind him, and when he got to the top of the steps he saw Boyd sitting down on one of the lower ones, his head buried in his hands. “Shit,” he muttered, because Ava was crying about white horses and men in cowboy hats.

He laid her down on the bed in his old room and she clung to his shirt, forcing him to slide her over and sit down at the edge of the dusty old mattress. He pried her hands off him, watching the hot tears stream down her face, and tried not to think of his mother, of how many times he’d seen her try to hide her tears from him, of how she’d never, ever thought anyone was gonna get her out. 

At least Ava wasn’t shy with him about the tears, though Frances Givens had never touched a drop of alcohol again after the first time Arlo beat her under the influence. Helen had told him that when he was a teenager.

Raylan put a hand up to Ava’s brow, brushing strands of hair away from her eyes. “It don’t work like that, Ava,” he said. “You were the only one, could make that choice. There wasn’t anything I could do. Woulda told you that sooner, but I thought you knew.”

She smiled and shook her head, though he wasn’t sure to what exactly. “Figured it out sooner or later, I guess.”

Raylan bent low to brush a kiss across her damp cheek. “It don’t mean we can’t help now. You know that, right?”

She smiled. “That’s what Boyd said.”

Raylan heard a creak of the floorboards and turned to see that Boyd was standing in the doorway, looking a little worse for wear, and staring at them with haunted eyes. Raylan made himself smile at his boy. “Well, you know how smart he is, right?” Boyd’s mouth quirked at him.

He turned back to Ava, and saw that she was out cold already. He wasn’t sure if she looked peaceful or not, but at least her mind wasn’t running it over and over again. He didn’t blame her for drinking so much.

“Put your sling back on, Raylan,” Boyd said, still lurking at the door. Raylan stood, treading softly and taking the sling from Boyd’s hand. He didn’t put it on right away. 

He stood very close to Boyd, but they didn’t touch. Everything felt slightly off, strained in a way that it usually wasn’t. Raylan wasn’t sure if it was because of what Ava said, or how either of them felt about what happened that day. He thought it was strange that he couldn’t read it right. The look in Boyd’s eyes said he felt the same.

Raylan brushed past him, looking away and walking to the bathroom to get a glass of water and some aspirin for Ava when she woke, knowing she’d need it. When he came back into the room, Boyd hadn’t moved from the door and he felt eyes on him as he set the glass and pills down on the side table, the one where he’d kept that ten year old lube from the first time they were together.

Very little about the room had changed since that time, since Raylan was in high school, really. It had been the one thing Boyd never touched in the house. Raylan remembered then, he’d caught Boyd sleeping in this room the second time he came back to Harlan, the time when this thing, their relationship, had truly become real.

Raylan turned at that thought, and looked at Boyd. At the time, he hadn’t thought anything of it. He’d stood there, letting Boyd tell him that he didn’t want to know--should never know--what he was doing. Raylan had been so willing, so ready to keep his ignorance of just what Boyd had done, to his life, to himself, to be there for Raylan, to be what he needed. He’d never understood just how vulnerable that made Boyd, then and now. Especially now.

He wondered, just for a moment, if Boyd was no longer the person he needed to be to get through this shit with his daddy. Raylan didn’t know if he could stand that, one way or the other. 

He could tell by Boyd’s expression that he was off balance, uncertain of what Raylan was thinking. It was rare these days that they weren’t on the same page. Raylan tilted his head, only slightly, and moved, walking soft still but fairly fast and pushing Boyd back from the room, pressing him up against the wall in the hallway, just at the head of the stairs.

Raylan hated all this uncertainty. He hadn’t felt this way since the beginning, or at least since the night Boyd kicked out the foot he’d been keeping in the door.

“I didn’t come back here to save anybody,” he said, pushing at Boyd’s hips, pressing himself close there, but keeping some distance between their chests, their lips. His hands were at Boyd’s shoulders.

Boyd’s eyes were wide and Raylan could tell by the look in them that he was a little drunk. “I know that,” he replied.

Boyd’s hands were on him now, at his waist, sliding up his back. “I didn’t come back here for that,” Raylan insisted. 

Raylan knew Boyd thought he was just talking about Ava when he said, “Baby, I know,” and kissed him. Raylan felt the pull of a groan, something not far off from a whine, at the back of his throat, not wanting to think about why Boyd didn’t understand, when he always did before, always. He closed his eyes, knowing he couldn’t say, not wanting to fight about it, not then, when Boyd tasted so sweet and warm and he pulled Raylan in and up somehow, responding to the sound like it was only of desire.

Boyd was the one who pushed Raylan to the bed, limbs loose and carelessly strong with drink. His smile was the same way, easy and big, and his eyes were sharp, clearer somehow than they’d been in days. Raylan had to remind him twice to be careful of his shoulder, until he stopped caring about it as well.

They undressed swiftly, mostly on their own, though Boyd helped with Raylan’s shirt. Raylan couldn’t stop himself from smiling at how into it Boyd was. 

They’d messed around a little since the hospital, but Raylan had been so tired and Boyd still too worked up and weird about everything for them to really enjoy anything. It seemed strange to finally be so ready after the catastrophe or tragedy or whatever of the day and with Ava sleeping just in the next room over, but it was right too. 

It seemed like something they’d do.

“Raylan,” Boyd said between kisses, like he was the only thing he’d ever wanted and Raylan couldn’t stop a shudder running down his spine. All the things that Boyd had done flashed through his mind, everything between them, it felt like too much.

Boyd pulled back immediately, staring openly at Raylan, who couldn’t meet his eyes. He pulled himself closer, climbing up into Boyd’s lap, pressing his lips again and again to his temple, down past his ear and the side of his neck. Boyd’s arms came around him steadily and his mouth was near Raylan’s ear as he whispered, “Baby, what’s wrong?”

Raylan laughed then, breathless and strained. “Nothing,” he murmured as Boyd’s hand came up around his neck, strong, pulling him up.

“Look at me,” Boyd said and Raylan did. “That’s bullshit.”

Raylan looked into Boyd’s eyes, they were dark and dilated wide. They were sure and honest like they’d always been. His cock was pressing hard into Raylan’s leg and suddenly all Raylan wanted was to get him off. He didn’t want to think about any of it anymore. He was done.

Boyd must have seen that, and he must have seen something else in Raylan’s expression as well, some tell, because he smiled then, wickedly, and with a burst of controlled force, pushed Raylan down onto his back. Boyd kissed him hard and long, hovering over him, bracing his hands up at Raylan’s shoulders, pinning him down. 

Raylan drew one leg up, leaning it against Boyd’s hip, letting the other stretch out across the bed as Boyd straddled it. He let himself smile up at Boyd, who looked like he knew just what Raylan needed, and fuck if he didn’t. He always did.

Raylan lifted his head up, craning his neck to bring his mouth closer to Boyd’s, who was holding himself just far enough away it would be a strain. Raylan panted into Boyd’s open mouth, licking his tongue across Boyd’s lips and teeth, desperate to be closer. He groaned. He almost said please.

Boyd’s mouth bore down on Raylan’s then, and he drew his hand down, trailing it across Raylan’s chest and stomach, grasping strong and sure at Raylan’s erect cock. He drew himself up and near, to wrap his fingers around them both, panting with want and need. Raylan’s hands found their way to Boyd’s hips, and his skin was hot, as if from a fever.

“We’re gonna,” Boyd said, breathless but not broken, to Raylan. “We’re gonna do this together, baby.” And he started to move.

At first he went so, so slow that Raylan writhed with it under him, the friction between them burning low and only threatening to overwhelm, enticingly, maddeningly. Raylan’s fingers dug into Boyd’s skin as he forced himself to keep the pace Boyd set. Boyd knew, though, he reminded himself, Boyd knew what he needed. 

When his hips bucked up, ready to go faster, he bit his lip and Boyd murmured, “You’re so good, baby. It’s so good right now.” And Raylan moaned at him until he picked up the pace. Boyd’s fingers were slick with sweat from their bodies and a smear of pre-come. Everything was tightening up, focused to a point and Boyd laughed, low and lovely, pressing their lips together again, messy and and warm and wet. “We’re gonna do this together, baby,” he said, a strange control in his tone. Raylan’s eyes rolled back at the sound. “Tell me, Raylan. Tell me that.”

Raylan’s hips jerked and he wrapped his hand around Boyd’s fingers as they worked. “Do it,” he grunted, a guttural sound, something desperate. “Together.” He felt it building fast, coming on strong. “Boyd,” he warned and Boyd’s hand stopped moving, just for a second, prompting him to cry out with the need for it.

Boyd’s lips came close again to his ear and their hands began to move again, faster still until he said, low and filthy, “I love you so damn much, son,” and they both came all over each other.

Boyd’s eyes were heavy-lidded and he smiled languidly at Raylan as he collapsed to his side, the left one so Raylan could roll over enough for them to keep looking at each other. Boyd pressed his lips to Raylan’s chest, lapping at him and sucking their come off his skin. Raylan felt his well-fucked smile spread into a grin and he tilted his head back, even as he grasped at Boyd’s thigh across his leg, to make himself easier to get at.

“We taste so good,” Boyd said, drawing the word out. “You an’ me, Raylan.”

Raylan was getting hard again and he was dizzy with it, coming down and right back up. “You an’ me,” he repeated, then said, “Want you again, Boyd.” It was fast for him, really fast, but nothing about tonight seemed normal anyway.

Boyd grinned at him like he’d just been given a gift and he pulled himself up on Raylan, dragging him in for a searing kiss. Raylan found himself laughing at the end of it, it was so damn good. “Come on,” Boyd said. “I’ll suck you off in the shower.”

When he started to move off, clasping Raylan’s hand in a loose grip, Raylan wrapped his arm around Boyd’s waist and held on. “No,” he protested, breathing deep into Boyd’s neck, pulling him closer. He didn’t want to wash this off yet.

He was holding Boyd up on his lap, so he had to look up when his boy’s hand came to his cheek, setting their eyes to meet. “Raylan, I really want your cock in my mouth.”

“Me too.” As soon as he said it, he realized how badly he wanted it, wanted to give Boyd everything he could.

Boyd’s grin turned downright filthy as he murmured, trailing a hand through Raylan’s hair. “You want to sixty-nine it?”

All the breath blew out of Raylan’s lungs as he replied, “Jesus, yes.”

It wasn’t something they did often, and Raylan wondered briefly if it was a good idea, on account of his shoulder, but he told himself he’d be careful and his thoughts fled quickly to other things. Boyd’s cock was hard as his own when they started and when they were finished, both getting off with the crazy intense power that comes with going twice in a row, they grinned stupidly at each other and stumbled into the shower.

They were clean and lying in bed, tangled up on top of the sheets because that’s how they wanted to be, when Raylan drew his hand up and into Boyd’s hair. Boyd leaned into it and sighed heavily, his breath rushing across Raylan’s chest. 

Boyd reached for Raylan’s other, unoccupied hand and threaded his fingers through Raylan’s. He looked up, without turning his head too far from Raylan’s attentions and said, “Did I ever tell you how I feel about your hands, baby? These hands,” he began without waiting for Raylan to answer, “are...well, look at them.”

“I feel like I look at them a lot, Boyd. They’re my hands.”

Boyd traced his index finger and thumb along the knuckles of a few of Raylan’s fingers, light as a feather. “Words escape me,” he said softly.

“Words... escape you?” Raylan pulled Boyd up closer and felt his lips form a smile against Raylan’s skin.

“I like them. They’re beautiful.”

Raylan knew that Boyd was always freer with his compliments when he was under the influence of something, drink or sex or both. So he smiled and said, "Okay Boyd."

"You think just cause I'm buzzed I don't mean it, or that it somehow ain't just as true," Boyd accused. He didn't look put out, just sort of amused as he traced his fingers across Raylan's skin. "Never knew how to take a compliment," he muttered and smiled indulgently.

Raylan rolled his eyes and replied jokingly, "You want me to tell you how beautiful you are, Boyd? That what this is about?"

"No," Boyd huffed. "Never said it before, so you better not start now just 'cause you think I'm fishin' for compliments."

Raylan tilted his head and saw that Boyd's expression had sobered. He thought about seeing Winona after so long that day and remembered how for a long time after they'd met, even into the time when he'd been pretending he wasn't in love with Boyd, he'd thought of her as the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen on two legs. But that didn't mean he had no aesthetic appreciation for the boy in his arms.

He smiled softly and said, "You already know I like your hair, darlin'." He drew a hand up and into it. Boyd twisted his head like he wanted to pull away. His eyes were dark and his expression wasn't really a warning, but there was something wary there, as if he wasn't sure he wanted Raylan to continue. He already said he didn't have to, but Raylan felt like it was something he needed to do now, since he was thinking about it.

He thought about years ago, back when he and Boyd had just started working at the mine, when they'd only just found how much they liked each other, how well they went together. He thought about the thing about Boyd's hair and how he'd loved it, that one part of Boyd, since before he had memory of loving it.

Raylan closed his fingers in Boyd's hair, in an insistent way he wouldn’t normally. Boyd took the cue and stilled, relaxing back into Raylan's chest.

“You remember that house party we crashed in the fall, the one with the--”

“Garden gnomes,” Boyd finished, the hint of a laugh in his voice. “Bowman threw ‘em on the grill. Sure.”

“You know, that was the first time I ever saw you drunk. Like, really drunk.”

“Yeah? I guess it woulda been,” Boyd shrugged as he spoke. He stretched languidly, taking his forehead off Raylan’s chest and letting his chin rest there instead, so they could look at each other. He idly traced tiny circles across Raylan’s collar bone and pec, close to his nipple. His smile stretched and shrank mercurially as he scrutinized Raylan. “What about it?”

It was the first party they’d gone to together, as friends. Boyd had got sort of an invitation through Bowman, the football star, and Johnny trailed along with them as well--though Raylan had never been especially warm towards him.

“I’d never seen you let loose like that before,” Raylan said. “We’d been hanging out together for weeks by that time.” 

When Raylan thought about it later, trying to puzzle out what had been special about that night, he’d realized the guest list for that gathering had been entirely made up of people who either didn’t give a shit about Boyd, knew him and were part of his circle, or loved him like family. 

Raylan had always secretly thought of Boyd, especially back then, as somewhat of a posturer. He would put on a damn good show for an audience, if he thought they needed one, and that night, he was in top form. He smiled at everybody, talking bigger and louder than anybody at a party full of self-important football players. He scuffled with Bowman and talked good natured-shit about the kid’s friends, though something in his eyes didn’t allow any of them to dish it back out at him. He was bigger than life that night, more vibrant, more real. Raylan felt his eyes grow wide just watching him.

They’d come drunk, or buzzed anyway, from after-shift drinks at the puddle, and Boyd had wasted no time in ransacking the liquor cabinet of the house they’d virtually crashed. He passed everything around to people, smiling like Santa Claus, but kept a lion’s share for himself, and to split with Raylan.

“You an’ me, boy,“ he’d said with a wink. “Gotta keep the good stuff to ourselves.”

“Raylan, I remember that night pretty well.” Boyd’s voice in the present was hesitant, like he wasn’t quite sure where Raylan was going with this.

Raylan drew his hand up and down Boyd’s arm. “Tell me what you remember,” he said into Boyd’s ear.

“We danced with some girls,” Boyd said, like he was ticking off a list, “despite the fact that they were playing that pop with a twang shit Bowman’s friends liked so much. Then smoked out on the back porch.” He looked up at Raylan then and grinned, saying, “But I know you only ever pretended to. Takin’ it in and blowin’ it out so fast. No wonder you never got the habit.” Raylan raised his hands in a you-got-me gesture, but Boyd pulled them back down to him. “Then we danced again. But you hung back against the wall right away. And you watched me.”

Raylan smiled softly, remembering.

“You looked so good,” he said, and Boyd drew in a breath. “I’d never noticed before.”

There was something outlandishly sensual in the way that Boyd moved that night, something Raylan noticed for the first time as he watched him flit between those girls, looking them all in the eye like he knew their secrets, like he knew just what they wanted. He touched them fleetingly, never lingering, and they swayed around him, little spirals of long hair and too-tight clothes. 

Though it would have been easy for Boyd to have any of them, he never did, and not at any of the other parties they ever went to either. His eyes just kept drawing back to Raylan and Raylan was never able--even years later-- to shake the perception he’d unearthed that night. He always saw that same ease of movement, that certainty of action and undeniable coolness.

“You were the sexiest damn thing I’d ever seen in my entire life, Boyd,” Raylan told him “Let me tell you what else.”

Boyd’s eyes got big, but he didn’t do anything but nod, his mouth parted in a wordlessly rapt expression.

It wasn’t until much later that Boyd came back to Raylan from the dance floor, sliding a hand along the wall, grabbing onto furniture like that was how everyone walked, not just the ridiculously drunk. He had an empty glass in his hand and eyes only for Raylan.

“Boyd,” Raylan said with a smirk.

The expression fell gracelessly off his face when Boyd leaned in close, breath strong with whiskey and said, “Hey, Raylan.”

Raylan had to back off, taking a deliberate and large step away. He’d noticed Boyd earlier, everyone had noticed Boyd, but he’d never been turned on by anything so masculine in his entire life.

Boyd tilted his head, a familiar action made more pronounced by all the booze, and said quietly, “What’s wrong?” There was real concern in his features, more than he would have shown sober. Raylan’s throat constricted.

Raylan forced himself to smile, and deliberately set a hand on Boyd’s shoulder, pushing him back to stand upright and away from Raylan’s space. Boyd just seemed happy Raylan was touching him. “Nothing’s wrong,” he answered. “You’re drunk, Boyd.”

Boyd laughed, leaning back against the wall next to Raylan. “Ain’ no way that’s wrong,” he said good-naturedly. Raylan laughed too and bunched his hand into a fist, pumping it like that was gonna stop him from thinking about how he might want to touch Boyd again, for no damn reason at all.

It was then that the garden gnomes ended up on the grill, and everyone went outside to watch them melt down and burn, charring up a pile of chunky plastic and making the yard stink to high heaven of chemicals and ash.

Near the end of the show, Raylan saw an empty beer in Boyd’s hand and looked around, wondering who’d given it to him and when. He’d been watching, knowing Boyd really couldn’t take too much more.

Boyd was swaying on his feet, and Raylan stepped forward to grasp his arm, gentle but insistent. Boyd twisted in his grasp, but smiled as soon as he realized who was holding him. "Hey," he said.

"Lets go over here," Raylan urged, motioning to the picnic table stuck way out in the back of the house's sprawling backyard. Boyd followed him there, quiet for a rare moment and watching Raylan with something funny in his eyes, something Raylan had never seen before.

"You musta thought I was 'bout to fall right over," Boyd told him, not quite laughing. The walk over had probably made him realize just how drunk he was. He drew a hand through his hair and sat down heavily on the bench.

"Gonna be okay?" Raylan asked quietly, settling down across from him.

Boyd nodded steadily. Raylan had always respected him for knowing his own mind, for seeing his limits, though he'd never admit them to anybody. He always knew when to cut things off, to get himself out of trouble. That was something Raylan had never quite been able to get a handle on.

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Raylan turned his attention to an argument brewing between Johnny and one of the boys on the team. He wasn't quite sure what it was about, but trouble seemed to be on the way. When he turned back to Boyd, the boy was staring at him, that same funny look in his eyes.

"What?" he asked.

"You ever have your dick sucked, Raylan?" he said, serious as a heart attack. Raylan's eyes widened, but he couldn't even get a word out before Boyd went on. "’Cause some girls, they don't like to. So even when you ask 'em, they might not do it for you. Hard thing to come by, is good head. But," he was smiling now, real sweet, but sort of soft and uncertain, and he slid a hand up Raylan's arm, making the skin erupt in prickling goose flesh. "Some boys, Raylan, they like it. Some boys think about it all the time."

"Boyd," the name came stripped bare and strangled from his mouth. Raylan wasn't prepared for this, even after what he'd seen on the dance floor, what he'd discovered. 

He wanted to protest, wanted to tell the boy to shut his damn mouth. He felt hot and strange, embarrassed and scared for no fucking reason. There was a sharp feeling deep in his gut that he only identified years later as desperate, unwieldy want.

But Boyd wasn't done. "Sometimes, you just want somebody's cock in your mouth," he said.

Raylan was saved then from having to speak, to respond to such an unimaginable thing, by an angry shout from near the house. The thing with Johnny had finally escalated to something worth interfering with, so Raylan stood up, saying nothing to Boyd at all, and strode across the yard.

He stared Johnny down, his long stare, the one that occasionally would unnerve a freshman pitcher. Johnny glared back, pissed and panting with it. His eyes held that Crowder glint, the look they got when their pride had been prickled, when they were itching for a fight.

"I don't care what this shit is all about," Raylan said, looking from Johnny to the other boy, a large one at that, probably played the offensive line. "Boyd needs to go home. You're gonna take him."

Johnny glared at him. "Why can't you?"

Raylan hoped he didn't pause too long before hedging the lie, "Bo don't want me anywhere near his place now that Arlo ain't in his good graces. You want Boyd, drunk as he is, to catch any of that shit? You'll start a fight bigger 'n this one."

Johnny took a breath, deep, like he needed more oxygen to think, and finally nodded. "Yeah, all right."

Raylan was left to push back on the younger boy, big as he was, and calm things down a little as Johnny went back over to Boyd, who had his head cradled in his arms now. 

Raylan didn't think he was passed out or anything, just tired, just waiting for Raylan. 

He sat like that sometimes outside of the changing room at the mine, waiting for Raylan to finish washing up. Raylan felt a pang of something, guilt, desire maybe, though he would have never called it that, as he watched Johnny pull Boyd up and wrap an arm across his shoulders. 

He ignored it. He would keep on ignoring it for months, until it was almost too late.

“I thought I dreamed that happened,” Boyd said, still laying on his chest, in a tone full of quiet wonder, then he laughed. “Shit. What a thing to say.” 

And the way he spoke then, like it wasn’t even him who’d done it, like it was some other boy, gave Raylan pause.

“Boyd, you say shit like that all the time,” he said, and didn’t really like how defensive it sounded.

Boyd shrugged. “Yeah, but, I know you’re into it. That must have been some strong shit, to get me to say something like that, without knowing.”

Raylan had never, ever thought of it that way, that Boyd had just been too drunk to censor himself. To him, that was how Boyd just was, is, or could often be. He didn’t even know anymore. “If you hadn’t said that, darlin’, I don’t know if I would have believed you when--”

But Boyd cut him off with a kiss, leaning in hard. “Let’s not tonight, Raylan,” he said and rolled away to turn off the light. 

Raylan looked at him. He wasn’t as perceptive as Boyd, but he knew the subject was always changed when they got too close to what happened the night Raylan left Harlan. But he was tired too, and he didn’t particularly want to open that can of worms either, so he slid down in the bed and pulled Boyd close to him again. 

He was the big spoon to Boyd’s little tonight, and for some reason, that felt more right than anything else they’d said or done that evening. He sighed and fell asleep with his forehead pressed against the jutting bone at the base of Boyd’s neck. It was smooth and solid and warm. 

It felt like an anchor.

 

Art had given Raylan the day for bereavement, which he thought was sort of a stretch. It wasn’t much time, but it was a Friday, so he’d have the weekend to stick around and help Ava sort out her shit, if she needed. 

He supposed Art had been sufficiently moved by the half-conversation he’d heard Raylan having about the whole mess to pull some strings for them. It was nice, having his boss in the corner for him on the personal shit. Raylan had never had that before and it felt strangely relieving. So, he didn’t have to drive to Lexington in the morning, which was also nice.

If he didn’t need to be, Raylan was not an early riser. So there was no real routine between the two of them in the mornings. If Raylan had to leave, he’d be up first and he’d shower and go down to cook them something. If he didn’t, Boyd would roll quietly out of bed, do his own morning ritual, and let Raylan sleep as long as he liked. Sometimes they would fuck.

But they’d done so much of that the night before, Raylan was pretty sure neither of them was quite up to it. He’d woken up early that morning, despite the fact that he had nowhere in particular to be, and stayed in bed, moving little and letting his mind race. His shoulder was aching something fierce, but not enough to make him regret all the shit they’d got up to the night before. He let it go, not wanting to disturb Boyd by getting up and searching for his bottle of pills.

Just under an hour later, he felt Boyd wake, his back still pressed up against Raylan’s chest. He voiced a few quiet groans and began to gently extricate himself from Raylan’s arms. Raylan tightened his grip in response and breathed Boyd in, blowing him out with a sigh. “I thought for sure you’d know I was awake,” he murmured to Boyd’s shoulder.

“It’s quite early, Raylan,” Boyd replied defensively. “My senses are not at their peak.”

“Excuses, excuses.” Raylan pulled at Boyd’s shoulder to turn him over.

Boyd’s eyes were still full of sleep and he yawned in Raylan’s face before he could stop himself. When Raylan pulled a face about it, he patted him on the hip, through the layers of sheet and blanket and yawned again, “My apologies.” He ran a hand through his hair as he sat up and rubbed at his eyes, groaning.

“You hungover?” Raylan asked, sitting up too.

Boyd shrugged. “Barely. Nothing a few eggs and a glass of water won’t fix.”

Raylan often envied Boyd’s ability to bounce back on a morning after. The older he got, the worse the hangovers became. It was almost enough to get him to quit drinking before bed. Though he wondered, if he did, how he’d ever get to sleep. Boyd’s jaw would start clicking like an empty lighter from the nightly blow jobs he’d have to give.

“What are you smilin’ about?” Boyd asked him, a deep frown of discomfort and confusion on his face.

Raylan huffed a laugh and rolled over and off the bed. “Nothin’” he said, retreating to the bathroom.

He had his toothbrush, loaded up with colgate, in his mouth when Boyd came in, crowding him in close around the small vanity. Boyd reached over him for his own toothbrush, casual as you please, though they were hardly ever in the bathroom together, unless someone was getting off in the shower, or being violently ill. He looked at Raylan, eyeing him up through the mirror and Raylan looked right back, raising his eyebrows as he brushed.

“I know you’re thinking about going to Little Sandy on Monday. To see my Daddy out. You do it often enough with prisoners you don’t give half as much a shit about. But I’m asking you, Raylan,” Boyd said, “don’t.”

Raylan spat out the lather and said, “I won’t.” Though the lie stuck in his gullet, hard and sharp, and he wanted to spit that out too.

“Because we’re gonna do this together, right?” There was something lurking in Boyd’s eyes, like he didn’t believe Raylan, but didn’t want to call him out either. Raylan sort of wished he would. 

He looked steadily back at Boyd. “I won’t,” he said again, and damned himself twice over.

He had every intention of going out to Little Sandy on Monday morning.

 

Ava roused herself shortly after they began cooking breakfast and came down the stairs just as Boyd had finished up with the bacon. She greeted them with a half-hearted, “‘Mornin’” and sat down at the table.

When Boyd set the plate of bacon in front of them he said quietly to Raylan, “Yesterday, Ava and I were talkin’ about goin’ over to her house today. Get things... cleaned up. Sorted out.” He turned to her then and asked, “You up for it, honey?”

She shrugged. “Well, if somebody hadn’t let me drink a fourth of his bourbon last night, I might be a little more up to it. But, I think I’ll muddle through.”

Boyd smiled at her, maybe in apology, and said even more softly, “I’ll let you do what you want, Ava, ‘til you tell me you don’t want to no more. Not before.”

Her brows sort of collapsed in on themselves and Raylan thought in horror for a split second that she might burst into tears. But she held herself together, nodded once like she’d just been given an order and reached for a piece of bacon, taking a bite then setting it down on her plate next to the eggs Raylan had shovelled there. 

“Okay, Boyd,” she said after taking a breath. Her smile was small, but it was present, and Raylan figured that was better than last night’s sea of tears.

After breakfast, they headed over to Ava’s place. Then left again immediately after realizing Ava did not have the type of cleaning products necessary to get the bloodstains off her carpet.

She’d got Bowman in the living room, on his way to the breakfast table. She said she thought about doing it that night, but couldn’t wait the day out. She’d thought about it the entire night before, gathering her courage, and knew it would run out before he got home from the mine. She didn’t say what it was that made the decision for her.

They went direct to the hardware store, all three of them, mostly because none of them wanted to stay in the house by themselves, but also because Boyd and Raylan figured they’d just rent one of those heavy duty carpet cleaners for the weekend and take it over to their place after. The irony of cleaning the carpets with death threats coming at them from Boyd’s daddy was not lost on Raylan, but as long as they were still pretending it was no big deal, he didn’t really see the harm.

Ava got some looks, mostly of surprise and sympathy from the people they walked by on the street and in the store. Boyd and Raylan got more. 

They weren’t exactly used to it yet, as they weren’t seen together too often. The looks they got ranged from disgusted stares to wide-eyed curiosity to downcast eyes and suppressed smiles. 

Raylan looked over at Boyd, not entirely sure how to take it. Boyd smiled at him ruefully and said in a low voice, “It’s not quite as bad as this when it’s only me.”

Raylan made a face, wishing he’d been more aware of all the shit Boyd had been going through lately. Not quite as bad still wasn’t living the way Raylan was able to in Lexington, with relative anonymity. This kind of attention seemed like what it must feel like to be a particularly infamous celebrity, without the added bonus of being too fucking rich to care.

Ava eyed them with her own suppressed smile and murmured as they got into the line at the register with their shit, “Thanks for taking all the attention off me, boys.”

“Anytime, Ava,” Boyd said with a smile, nodding at an old lady Raylan couldn’t put a name to at the moment, but who certainly did not think very highly of any of them.

It was then that Johnny Crowder came into the store, walking fast then slowing as he saw them, like he’d been rushing to get inside before they left.

“Hey, Johnny,” Boyd said, raising his brows. Boyd had told Raylan about how Johnny had helped them, or tried to, the night of the shit with Mosley. So Raylan didn’t automatically reach for his sidearm when he saw the man.

“Hey Boyd,” Johnny returned, looking between the three of them like he hadn’t really considered what he was walking into when he came into the store. “Can I... talk to you for a minute? Outside.”

Boyd looked at Raylan. He shrugged indifferently then turned to the counter. Mike was waving them up so he said over his shoulder, “Go ahead. We got this.” His shoulder was in the sling today, so Ava helped him put their shit up to be rung out and both their eyes followed Boyd out the door.

While Mike was doing whatever he needed to to get the cleaner rented to them, Ava nudged him in the side with her elbow and flicked her eyes out the window to where Boyd and Johnny were talking earnestly. “He’s keeping secrets,” she teased.

“He’s allowed to,” Raylan said flatly.

She considered him for a moment and he turned from the window to face her. “What’s he not allowed to do?” she asked.

Raylan worked his jaw. “Lie,” he answered and felt sick when he told her.

She was frowning at him now. She opened her mouth once, closed it again, then said, “Raylan...”

But Mike came back out from his office to the side of the register and Raylan shook his head. Mike checked his paperwork one more time, gave them sort of an aggravated look, then went back into the office.

“Listen,” Ava began and Raylan was about to tell her to shut up when he turned and saw her expression was real tight, like she was holding back tears again. “Don’t tell Boyd, okay? But I just need to say it. Bowman, he beat me for all sorts of reasons. I know it started when he realized he was never gettin’ outta Harlan. He took that out on me. But it got worse, recently. Not... not even physically so much, but it was all this shit he was sayin’ about Boyd. All the time. And I could only take so much of it before I let my mouth run. And he, he’d get so mad about that. He’d call me the worst things, you know, and you an’ Boyd too. He’d lay into me with that belt and ask if I’d been over to fuck you lately. He’d ask if you’d double team me or if you’d make me bind myself up so you could pretend I was your rent-boy--”

Raylan was sure Ava would have gone on if he hadn’t grabbed her hard by her elbow, squeezing until she looked up at him in surprise. “I’m sorry, Ava,” he said.

“It ain’t your fault,” she sniffed. “I just. Couldn’t take it anymore and I... couldn’t ask you to--”

“I know,” Raylan said, finally understanding. It wasn’t Bowman’s abuse of her that made her snap, it was her unwillingness to take his abuse of anyone else. She would never have allowed Boyd to expose himself to that kind of injury, not from his brother. What they’d gotten at the house had been bad enough. What they’d get from Bo, though, would probably be far worse. “Shit,” he cursed.

Ava looked at him with wide, wounded eyes. “What?”

Raylan shook his head. “Just, sometimes, Ava, I fuckin’ hate this town.”

Mike came back right at that moment, avoiding their eyes like he’d heard the whole thing. Raylan stared him down and paid without comment. He and Ava were at the door when Boyd came back in.

“Everything okay?” Raylan asked. Boyd looked shaken, sort of, or distracted. His mind was still on whatever Johnny had said.

Boyd’s lips thinned as he reached down to help them with the hulking cleaner. It was on old model and too heavy to carry one-handed for long. “For now,” he answered.

Ava frowned. She followed them, lugging the soap with her, to the truck parked outside. “What did he want?”

Boyd’s eyes did that wide, shifty thing they’d always done when it was about shit he knew Raylan didn’t want to know. “He ain’t gonna say, Ava,” Raylan said after they got the cleaner in the back, turning to help her throw the soap in too. He turned his voice low. “Because he ain’t gonna lie, okay?” He kept his eyes on Boyd, whose distant expression told him he was still thinking on what Johnny had come by for.

She frowned again and crossed her arms in front of her, looking at Raylan with a stubborn expression. “And this is how you get around, you bein’ who you are and him bein’ who he is?”

Raylan kept his face neutral, though he was not really a fan of being judged. “It is.”

“And you think that’s healthy?”

“I think neither of us are dead yet.” And as soon as he said the words, he wished he could take them back. When her eyes went wide and hurt and she tried to back away from him, he reached out fast and caught her arm. “And neither of us are in jail either, honey. That’s not what I meant.”

She looked at him for a moment like she wanted to strangle him. He let go of her arm and raised his hand in the air, about to offer another apology, but she took advantage of his lowered defences and sort of launched herself into him arms. “Jesus, Raylan,” she said to his chest as he slid the sling out of her way and tentatively wrapped her into a one-armed hug, “you’re the worst, you know that, right?”

He laughed. “Yeah. I know.”

“Hey,” Boyd called a moment later, leaning out of the cab. “Are you two alright?” 

Ava pulled herself from Raylan’s arms and walked around to the passenger side of the truck cab, climbing up and shuffling in to take the bitch seat. “We’re fine,” she said, dragging a hand through her hair and out of her eyes. “Just make sure your boyfriend works on bein’ less of an asshole all the time.”

Raylan climbed in next to her just in time to hear Boyd say with a rueful smile, “I will, Ava, but you know, he hardly ever means it.”

Raylan kept his mouth shut for much of the rest of the day, mostly so he didn’t get his foot caught in it again, but also so he wouldn’t have to speak any more lies.

 

All through the weekend, he saw Boyd notice how quiet he was, but neither of them said anything about it. They let Ava drink another fourth or so of bourbon, then put it away the next night, and saw her back to her own place on Sunday.

When they got back to the house, and were undressing for bed in their room, Raylan asked Boyd quietly, “You think your daddy will move on you first thing?”

Boyd shook his head. “I really can’t say. I would think he’d have to get himself together a little bit first. Get his money dug up, a place to bunk down. He gets into anything real dirty, he can’t go back to the house, or work out of Johnny’s. That’s too easy to track. He might have a plan already, though. He’s like that. I just haven’t the faintest what it would be.” He licked his lips and looked up at Raylan from where he’d sunk down to sit on the edge of the bed. “I know you can’t stay here. Art needs you back in.”

Raylan ran a hand through his hair. He scraped at the back of his neck, digging his nails in as he lied, “He wants me early tomorrow. Gotta leave before sun-up.” He paused, then offered, “You could come down to Lexington, just ‘til--”

“I ain’t gonna run away, Raylan,” Boyd said, his eyes hard. “We’d never be safe. I’d go after him myself if I thought it wouldn’t land me in prison, just to get it fucking over with.”

“I know,” Raylan sighed and dragged his hands over his eyes. 

“What does Art need you for so early on a Monday?” They both knew Art had been a lot more lax lately regarding when Raylan showed up for work, if he’d been in Harlan the night before.

“Prisoner transport,” Raylan said, turning to the dresser to lay out his sidearm and badge. He couldn’t look at Boyd.

But Boyd came up behind him, so softly, he wasn’t prepared. Boyd’s hands soothed his tense muscles, lingering over the each tiny gash in his shoulder, that was still hurting him too many days later. Boyd’s chin came to rest at the crook of his neck, on the right side, the uninjured one. “Raylan,” he said. “You’d tell me. Wouldn’t you?” He didn’t say what. He knew he didn’t have to.

Raylan raised his eyes and looked at him, at them, caught in the mirror they’d hung together in that room, after the break-in had shattered pretty much everything. They were both bare chested and the wounds healing too slow on Raylan’s shoulder looked just as dark as the swastika that still stood out stark on Boyd’s. The room was lit only by the bedside lamp and Raylan’s eyes seemed hooded in shadows, while Boyd’s were bright and honest.

“I would,” he answered and did not say that he just couldn’t.

 

Raylan really had no actual role in the release of Bo Crowder. He didn’t want one anyway, because he’d be on record as having been present, and he really didn’t want Art to get to throw that back in his face someday.

He’d foregone the sling that morning because he didn’t want to appear any kind of weak in front of Bo, but he’d taken half a pill for the pain because damn if it didn’t still ache. He’d kissed Boyd, still half asleep, on the mouth and said “I love you,” rushing out the door before his boy could wake up enough to wonder why he’d left that way.

He had his hands in his back pockets as he leaned up against the clean white wall of the outer courtyard, in front of the big iron doors, but inside the gate he’d waited for Boyd behind the last time he’d come up to LIttle Sandy. It was a beautiful morning.

Bo looked very much like he had the last time Raylan had seen him, though a lot grayer and a bit wider around the waist. He was wearing a hulking winter coat and the kind of heavy work boots that were imprinted in Raylan’s mind as the off-hours uniform of a Harlan miner.

Raylan knew, despite the Crowder clan’s ubiquity as a crime family in Harlan for going on a century, they were all deeply entrenched in the mine. They all worked their way up, getting to know the system, the men that worked there. The mine had always been the recruiting grounds for men like Bo Crowder, so men like Bo Crowder lived and breathed the mine and sent their sons to work inside it, even if it was the last thing those boys wanted. 

As Bo approached him, Raylan pulled his jacket aside, sliding his hand to rest on his sidearm, slung low across his hip. He knew Bo’s boys were just outside that gate, waiting for him to make his way out, but right now, it was just the two of them. And that was just what Raylan wanted.

“Marshal Givens,” Bo said in a way that could be taken as either friendly or unfriendly. He carried himself in a way that was remarkably, though not terribly surprisingly, similar to Boyd, with a cool aloofness that was both unassuming and subtly threatening. Raylan felt his heart beat faster, but he put on his friendly lawman smile.

“Mornin’ Mr. Crowder,” he greeted cordially. He pushed off from the wall and took just two steps forward, putting himself just next to Bo as he came abreast of him.

“It’s a mighty fine one, isn’t it?”

“Sure is,” Raylan returned and tipped his hat forward, like he was really thinking about it.

It was then that Bo stopped walking, and Raylan halted as well, keeping his hand on his sidearm, his other with the thumb snagged through his belt loop like it was just a comfortable way to stand. He looked Bo in the eye when the big man asked, “You wanna tell me just what you think you’re gonna accomplish here, Marshal?”

Raylan let his smile grow wider, then fall innocently. “I was just makin’ sure everything went okay with your release, Bo. I mean, what happened with Hunter Mosley, I really do feel was a colossal failure on the part of the justice system. Even though I wasn’t anywhere near this town at the time of your incarceration, because of the history between our families, I think of it as my duty to make sure we, the Federal Government, I mean, don’t leave you with any... ruffled feathers. So to speak.”

“You weren’t anywhere near Harlan, huh?” Bo asked slowly.

Raylan smirked. “From a strictly professional standpoint, I wasn’t.”

Bo Crowder’s eyes were hard and full of a barely restrained fury that made Raylan’s muscles tense up, as if waiting for a blow. His voice was low and threatening when he said, “You’re not gonna scare me with this shit, son. You’re not gonna mess with my head, no matter how tough you think you are.”

Raylan tilted his head, shrugged his shoulders. “I’m not sure I know what you mean, Bo.”

Certainly, Raylan did know, but that wasn’t what this was about. Raylan liked to take the measure of a man, if he had the opportunity. He liked the men he dealt with, at least in this kind of capacity, to have some sort of line on him first too, so everyone knew what they were walking into. This wouldn’t have been necessary if Boyd had let him come in to Little Sandy the last time. But, of course, he knew why Boyd hadn't wanted that.

“It’s just that I hadn’t seen you in so long,” he said, after a long pause between them.

Bo’s eyes widened, just a fraction at that, then he laughed, loud and harsh. “You know, Givens,” he said, wiping just once at his eyes, like Raylan was the funniest thing he’d seen or heard in a good while, “I never pegged you for it. I don’t think your daddy ever knew either, for all he tried to beat everything else out of you. You know why?”

Raylan just raised his eyebrows.

“You got balls, son,” Bo said, then turned and walked away. Raylan didn’t follow.

 

The prison parking lot was down a long walk from the gate, across the road the looped the stark white buildings and wound out onto the state highway. Raylan, with his government plates and his Marshal’s badge, got prime parking right at the top of the lot, next to the road. 

It was a good thing that day, because tensing up his shoulders for Bo had put an awful ache back into his wound. He pawed at it through his shirt as he walked back, rolling the joint, trying to free it up, loosen things a little. It wasn’t working and it was putting a pain in his head, and one in his jaw too, from clenching it in discomfort.

He’d seen, at a distance, Bo climb into a van that had been waiting for him on the road at the end of the drive. He’d waited a few minutes to start his own walk down, taking it slow so he could think.

He felt like his thoughts should be racing, but they were slow with worry and not a little bit of fear. Bo Crowder was still every bit as terrifying as he’d been when Raylan was a kid, when Arlo was still taking work from the Crowders, and when he was a teenager as well, looking on as Boyd made his way back and forth from that house on the days Raylan would pick him up or drop him off from the mine.

He didn’t know what they were going to do, because he didn’t know what Bo was going to do. That was the real scary part.

He’d just got to the car, fighting a real headache now, maybe more from stress than anything, and was fishing his keys out of his pocket when he heard the squeal of tires right behind him and the door of a van sliding open hard.

Raylan tried to turn, he had his hand on the grip of his sidearm, fast as ever, but someone was there already and caught his left arm by the shoulder, squeezing hard enough to make him see stars and his legs collapse right out from under him. It was the blow to the head that made him drop his weapon.

“Shit,” he heard himself say after another pair of knuckles bore down on his face and they threw him into the van. He thought of Boyd as the door slid closed again.

It wasn’t too dark inside, but there was blood in Raylan’s eyes and he was laid out on his back on the floor. The only face he could see was Bo Crowder’s smiling down on him. The man had Raylan’s hat and gun held loosely, like carnival prizes, in his hands.

“I was gonna hold off on this for a little while, boy. I really was,” Bo said. “But then you went and dropped yourself in my lap. Let me ask you, what would you have done?”

Raylan didn’t answer, was barely paying attention. He sucked all the blood off his teeth and rolled over onto his stomach so he could spit it at Bo’s feet. 

Then he said the only thing that had been running through his mind since Bo’s boys shut the door behind him, “Boyd’s gonna kill you, asshole.”


	5. Watch it Burn to the Ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In chapter Five, the boys deal with the fallout from Bo's release, Raylan as a captive and Boyd working against the clock to meet his father's nefarious demands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final actual chapter. There will be an epilogue that got a little longer than would be cool to post with the rest of this monster. Hopefully, it will be coming in about a week, fingers crossed for less.
> 
> Thanks so much to Thornfield_girl, Engage_Protocol, and rillalicious for being incredibly supportive betas for this entire project. <3

Boyd heard Raylan say, “I love you,” as he left that morning. 

He did that sometimes, more often of late, which would be just short of a miracle if Boyd didn’t have a sneaking suspicion that it was because of how worried Raylan had been about him, because of how he’d reacted to everything that happened in that damn motel room. 

Boyd had scared Raylan that day, it was obvious. He’d scared himself as well.

It was one thing to be riding the edge hard enough to lose control for a moment, Boyd knew that was often the result of adrenaline, of too much all at once. He’d known that feeling, had felt it before. But it was quite another to lose all sense of reality.

He did remember the spiralling sensation of uncertainty he’d felt then, how it grew and spread, how his senses seemed to be miles from his body, when he couldn’t be sure if Raylan had died.

In retrospect, the idea of that confusion made no sense at all. Raylan had been walking and talking right before his eyes. He remembered that. But still, everything had seemed so unreal until Raylan had touched him, had whispered the truth in his good ear.

He felt enormously relieved that Raylan’s quiet assurance that he was not, in fact, dead, was the last thing he remembered until he’d awoken in the hospital with his head in Raylan’s lap to see Helen standing by the bed, her hands on her hips and a crease of worry across her brow.

“What happened?” he found himself asking before he really thought about it.

Helen had sighed at him and said, “That’s what I want to know, honey. All I got was a call from some woman down here, says you boys need picked up.” 

He could hear her okay, though there still was a low tone ringing somewhere in the back of his head. Boyd sat up, rolling the ache out of his neck and shoulders and looked over at Raylan, then back at Helen. “Raylan’s asleep,” he told her.

“I can see that,” she replied, then frowned at him. “Boyd, honey, are you all right?”

Boyd hadn’t quite been sure how to answer that. His thoughts were all a jumble and he was in the process of trying to sort them out as he spoke to her, his words coming out in fragments like the memories of that morning, “Well, there was Mosley and the boy and then Raylan was... and all I could hear was--”

He broke off as he saw Art step into the doorway. The man’s expression was grave as he looked at him and Boyd felt exposed by his gaze. He realized, too late, how unhinged he sounded, how broken. He shut his mouth and met Helen’s eyes.

“Ms. Givens,” Art said quietly. “May I speak with you for a moment?”

She glanced at the Chief, then turned back to Boyd and said, “I don’t know what happened, Boyd, but you pull yourself together right now. He sees you like this, it’s gonna gut him. He’s not gonna know what to do, but he’s gonna want to do something, you understand me?”

Boyd nodded. He knew that, he did. What he didn’t know, was what Raylan had already seen and if the damage had already been done. So he laid his head back down on Raylan’s lap after Helen left the room with Art and decided to wait it out.

In the days that followed, Boyd got so many more looks of concern and admissions of love from Raylan, he wasn’t quite sure what to do with them. He felt out of sorts, unable to shake sudden flashbacks of that same unreality that had overwhelmed him in the motel room.

Raylan, he knew, was battling the insidious pain of the wounds in his shoulder, all small and burning with the same intense fire. So they sort of passed by each other in a haze of uncertainty and discomfort, until the day his brother died.

Boyd laid in bed and thought about Raylan’s “I love you,” that morning and reflected on how similar it sounded to the way he’d once said, “Goodbye.”

Raylan said he wouldn’t have believed Boyd that night, had it not been for that drunken admission, and maybe that was true. Raylan did always need a little push in a certain direction before he took any large steps. If Boyd had just told him, told him all those things, without any warning at all, he might not have heard it. He might have just walked away and never come back.

And then where would Boyd be? Prison. Or dead.

Boyd made himself roll out of bed at that thought, mumbling, “Jesus Christ,” to himself and attempting not to worry about what “I love you” had really meant. 

He sincerely hoped it wasn’t “I’m sorry,” but Boyd had a real strong feeling that it was.

Raylan had gone to Little Sandy. 

“You asshole,” he said to the empty room, right before the phone rang.

The house phone never rang anymore. Boyd told Helen and Ava months ago to call the cell phone Raylan had made him get, since he kept it on him and on vibrate if he was working on the house. Anybody calling for Raylan would know to call his work phone, which was his cell. 

The only calls they got on the land line were telemarketers or people who didn’t know Arlo had died, and Boyd hadn’t had one of those calls in over a year. He had asked Raylan once, if maybe they should cut the line, stop shelling out the money for a thing they didn’t use. But Raylan had looked at it for a long time, hanging on the wall just inside the kitchen, and said, “I like it where it is. Can’t hold onto it if it’s got no use.”

To most people, that might not have made a lick of sense, but Boyd felt like he got it. If it was something from the old days, something that Raylan wanted to keep, Boyd wasn’t going to mess around with that. If Raylan needed the line to be working to keep the phone, Boyd would pay whatever bill was necessary. And anyway, Raylan paid the utilities now that he lived in the house again and Boyd was making virtually nothing at the mine. He could do whatever the hell he wanted.

Seeing as the land line never rang, Boyd ran down the stairs for it, but hesitated before answering. He wasn’t stupid and he didn’t believe in coincidences unless he had evidence of them. If Bo Crowder was gonna call anyone living in this house, he’d call that number.

Boyd reached for the phone and put it to his ear. He didn’t say a thing.

His father’s voice came strong over the line. “News is, there’s only two people gonna answer this phone, and I got Raylan right here, so I know I’m talking to you, son.”

Boyd thought the floor must have dropped out from under him, then somehow rose right back up to press on his chest, because he was certain he couldn’t breathe. “You... got Raylan?”

“Sure do,” Bo laughed, low and short. Boyd knew it as his victory laugh, which seemed a little premature, but no less terrifying. “I got a visit from your good Marshal this morning, on my way out of the pen. He put on a nice show, but his head wasn’t in the game after our chat. Scooped him up right off side of the road. Easy pickins, if I do say so myself.”

“Daddy--” Boyd tried to interrupt.

“Don’t give me no shit now, Boyd. You wanna see him, you come down to Banks holler and we’ll talk.” The line went dead silent.

If Boyd thought slamming the receiver down in its cradle would help one goddamn bit, he would have. Instead, he set it down straight and calm and thought of Raylan telling him late in the night that his Mama would have that phone to her ear and stand near the wall, or work in the kitchen and stretch the line taut, talking to Helen or any one of her girlfriends for hours on end. Raylan said that when Arlo wasn’t there, she’d be gone too, in her own manner, and there was no way the man could stop her. Boyd wasn’t about to wreck that phone.

He walked up the stairs and dressed himself fast, but with consideration. He put on a light colored shirt, blue like most days, and clean. He made sure to put on a belt, Raylan’s braided one, because that would be stronger, if he had need, and he wore his work boots. He put his cell phone and wallet in his pockets, pulled on his jacket, and went into the guest room.

Boyd knew Raylan thought he’d kept that room, Raylan’s old room, untouched for sentimental reasons. It was mostly true, Boyd had never wanted that space to look any different than it had on the night they slept there together for the first time. For a while he did sleep there, before he claimed the whole house as his own. So, he never changed it, except for one square foot of floor boards down near the foot of the bed. 

Today, he pried them up. He took a crowbar he’d stowed in the closet to them and had the wood in torn up slivers across the floor in minutes. When he set that aside, he reached his hands down into the empty space between the first floor ceiling and the second floor itself and pulled out a dusty old duffel bag. 

He knew Raylan didn’t know about this, but he zipped it open quickly, just to be sure the sawed-off, two handguns, and 8,000 dollars in cash were still there. Finding everything in order, he zipped it back up and headed down the stairs, bag slung over his shoulder.

When he stowed that get away bag there six years before, he’d been preparing for the worst. There was a chance the men with whom he’d associated himself would take just enough offense at his departure from their company to come after him. They never did, but rumblings from around the county had indicated it was a near thing. Boyd supposed he had his daddy to thank for that, either directly or indirectly, though he hardly thought he’d get the chance to do so under their current circumstances.

He often wondered if he should tell Raylan about the bag under his floor, if he should come clean about where it came from and what he would have used it for. But he hadn’t been able to let go of that one last tie to his old life, that one safety net, in case something like this were ever to happen. Boyd was glad now that he hadn’t.

And anyway, he was about ninety-five percent sure there was something buried between Raylan’s parents’ gravestones out in the front lawn. The reason being, that spot had been the only place Raylan had specifically told Boyd he couldn’t touch on the property, despite the fact that no one in their right mind would ever fuck with the dead in the ground. 

It was fine with Boyd, they were both allowed their secrets.

He cooked himself breakfast quickly and tasted none of it. He threw the dishes in the sink and called Helen.

“Boyd,” she said upon answering. Her voice was hard. She was expecting bad news. He tried not to sound too serious. He knew Raylan wouldn’t want her to know exactly what was going on. He was fairly sure she wouldn’t want to know either.

“Helen, it would be great if you could head on over to Ava’s for a little while, just to see if she’s okay,” he said, staring at the floor and trying not to think of what might happen if Bo decided to take care of all his problems in one day.

“How long should I stay there, Boyd?” She sounded careful. She sounded smart and Boyd wanted to smile. God, he loved this woman.

“Oh, just ‘til I call. Not long, I’m hopin’.”

“All right.”

“I’m gonna send Johnny over there in a little while. To keep you company.”

“Excuse me?” Boyd closed his eyes at her tone, a habit he knew he picked up from Raylan. “Johnny Crowder, Boyd? You’re gonna _send_ Johnny Crowder somewhere? To help me?” 

“The situation around here is shifting, Helen,” Boyd said, thinking of his conversation a few days ago with his cousin. “You want me to tell you in what kind of ways? Or do you just want to trust me right now? Because I’m not certain I can spare the time. Johnny will look out for you and Ava and if he sells you to Bo, I will personally shoot and bury them both, I swear it. Raylan can screw himself between conjugal visits.”

“Boyd--”

“You know, I gotta be somewhere, Helen, so I’m gonna have to let you go. But, I promise, Raylan or I will call with the all clear, all right?”

He could hear her taking a calming breath over the line and he wanted badly to apologize, wanted to tell her everything, but he couldn’t because there was no way any of that shit could help. She’d been right about Raylan--hell, she always was, wasn’t she-- but there was nothing he could have done. So now she had to trust him to be right about this, because he knew that he was, if he could play it right, and if he had more than his share of luck today.

“Fine, Boyd,” she said, strained and tired-sounding. “I love you, honey, you’re mine as much as he is.”

Boyd didn’t trust himself to respond coherently to that, so he just clicked off the phone. He called Johnny on his way out to the truck.

When Johnny had pulled Boyd from the hardware store only two days before, he could tell it was for a serious matter. Boyd knew Johnny’s expression, remembered it from when they were small, from the times when his cousin was thinking on something particularly hard, extremely important.

“What can I do for you Johnny?” Boyd had said, very carefully. They walked over to his pick-up together, standing close in the full sunshine of the day. Boyd settled his hands in his pockets.

“Well, Boyd, it seems to me you and I currently share a problem.”

Boyd considered his cousin for a long moment. Johnny had surprised him with this. He’d thought the man would have preferred to wait his turn. “I have a problem, Johnny, what could be a goddamn deadly one. What you have is an opportunity.”

“You gonna let me take advantage of it?”

Boyd frowned. “Seems to me, you could do that on your own.”

“I could try,” Johnny said, surprising Boyd again. “And Bo could kill me. I need you, cousin.” It was never easy for Crowders to express this kind of humility.

Boyd squinted. This didn’t seem like a ruse. This wasn’t the kind of trap Bo would lay and Johnny wasn’t in the right kind of place to be trusted with the particular kind of problem Boyd presented. As family, he was too close. Bo would feel judged by his participation, his presence even, in taking Boyd down to size. 

No, Johnny was acting alone. To what end, was still in question.

“Why do you need me, Johnny?” Boyd asked.

“Why you think Bo threw such a shit fit over this thing with Givens? Why he wants to you fix it and move on? You’re the one he wants in charge after he goes, Boyd. He and my daddy, they was partners. You remember that. But you don’t hear nothin’ about it since the man passed on. This is my birthright too, cousin, you don’t want it--and I know you won’t take it long as you’re with the Marshal--let me fucking have it. This is the time to strike, but I need your help. ”

Boyd licked his lips. Johnny was right. Boyd knew that, but he’d wanted to hear him say it, admit to it, and he’d taken his measure as well.

Johnny had ambition, but, like Boyd, he knew his limits, what lines he could cross and what lines he would stumble over. Johnny wanted the kingdom, but he needed Boyd to hand it him. 

“I get you, Johnny,” Boyd said after a beat too long had passed. Johnny blinked, realizing he’d rattled Boyd with this. “I need... to think about some things.”

“Okay.” His cousin had obviously been expecting a yes or a no, certainly not this hesitation. But Boyd felt his thoughts go strangely slow as he contemplated this deal. 

He didn’t need to elaborate, however, because he looked into the store and saw Raylan and Ava were just about through. “I’ll... get in contact,” Boyd said, turning to the store.

Johnny had worked his jaw, like he thought Boyd was gonna turn him down flat the more time he had to think. “Make no mistake, Boyd. Bo’s willing to go a lot farther than you to get what he wants. You gotta match him, or someone you love is gonna die.”

Boyd hadn’t said anything, but even then, he knew.

And now, Daddy had Raylan and Boyd had to go as far as he needed to.

Johnny picked up on the second ring and Boyd didn’t even wait for a hello. 

He said, hard into the phone, “Here’s the deal, Johnny. We both know you need me. There’s no getting around that and there’s no way you were gonna convince me to help you without admitting it. That’s too bad for you, because I’m gonna use you in whatever goddamn way I see fit. You’re gonna do what I say, when I say it, because you know I know better than you and you’re gonna owe me a great deal when we’re through with this. I do not want a cut of your profits, the only thing that I want is your word that you will follow any order I give you and that you’ll keep my name the hell out of it.”

“Seems like you’re holding all the cards, Boyd,” Johnny said after a moment with a surly tinge to his voice.

“Damn right, I am. There’s going be a balance of debt between us, cousin,” Boyd answered. “Not just for the change that’s about to come, but for the time after as well. I hand you this town, I expect protection for me and Raylan and... whoever we name kin. I help you hold it, I expect discretion, I expect to be informed, and I expect to be anonymous.”

“Wait--” Johnny’s voice held a note of panic, like he hadn’t thought at all about the aftermath.

“You’re tellin’ me, you know know you need me to take this county, but you’re thinkin’ you can hold it without my counsel?”

“Shit,” Johnny said.

“That’s right, shit,” Boyd spat. “I’ll hold everything you have over your head, cousin, see if I won’t. You betray me, I’ll feed you to the feds. Don’t you even entertain the idea that I’m too proud for that these days. I keep a god damn Marshal in my bed, son.”

Johnny didn't speak but Boyd could hear him breathing, could practically hear the wheels turning inside his head as he turned his truck around the curves of the Harlan back roads. After a long moment Johnny said quietly, "Okay, Boyd. My word, on all of that, you've got it."

"Good. Now, I’d like you to head on over to Ava’s house. Helen’s there, too. You’re gonna stay with them until I say otherwise. Take a gun or two with you.”

“You think Bo’s gonna come after you both in one day, _the day_ he’s gettin’ out of prison?”

“I have very little information right now, Johnny. I’m tryin’ to cover my bases, okay? Just do what I said and wait for my call.”

“Did something--”

“I would like for you to stop asking me questions right now and get off the phone.” 

Boyd heard the click of the disconnect and closed his own phone, sliding it into the flat of his palm and telling himself he’ll need it later. It would be a terrible idea to throw the thing out the window.

He drove on to Banks holler.

 

Raylan was awake when they pulled him from the van. He thought maybe they’d knock him out, make his transport a little easier, but they hadn’t bothered. They’d put a bag over his head, though he had an idea of where he’d been taken anyway. He got hit when he struggled, hard across the jaw, but that didn’t stop him too much and Bo’s boys had a good time working him over. They had him laid out on the ground, a blow to the stomach leaving him rolling on a hard cement floor. 

Blood and spittle and the force of his breath made the rough fabric at his mouth damp and hot. It made him think of the mine, the claustrophobic feeling he’d never been able to shake the memory of. It had been so hot that summer.

They let him be for a few minutes and when a hand closed around his arm, pulling him up, he thought for a moment it was Boyd, that in just a second that boy’s mouth would be at his ear, urging him up, telling him to run. He wished it was the rumble of the earth above their heads that he heard next, instead of Bo Crowder’s booming laugh. He was talking to someone on the phone. Raylan knew that was Boyd.

He heard heavy footfalls when Bo came into the room and the bag was ripped from his head. He blinked at the light and squinted up at the big man, then looked around. 

They were in an empty room, one that looked like the furniture had recently been removed and the carpet torn up. The door through which Raylan was certain Bo had just come led into a kitchen area where there was a phone. There was a bathroom next to that door, or a closet perhaps, but no other exits than the front door to Raylan’s left, which was barred and bolted. There must have been a back door through the kitchen. 

Small dirty windows looked out into a wooded area and Raylan was sure now they were in one of the Crowder’s cabin properties. Boyd said once, when they were young, that his family had at least four or five he knew of, probably more he didn’t. 

Bo wouldn’t have been stupid enough to bring him to one anywhere near civilization and he was hurting, bad enough he wasn’t sure he could go further than a mile or two if he ran. They hadn’t bound him, but his eyes fell to the pistol in Bo’s hand. He wasn’t going anywhere.

Bo looked down at him and smiled, big and mean, then he kicked him hard in the stomach again. It was more a punt than anything, like a football player on kick-off. Raylan couldn’t remember if there were tales of Bo playing sports in high school, but he wouldn’t be surprised. He slid about a foot across the floor and gagged out some bile and a little blood. 

At this rate, forget running, he might not even last until Boyd got there. Bo seemed to see that and motioned to his boys, “Get him up. Let’s give ‘em a break for a minute.”

Raylan winced as the two men, both big as Bo and one much fatter but years younger, even than Raylan or Boyd, pulled him up by the arms. His bad shoulder protested, shooting a lance of pain straight into his chest, through all the connecting muscles and joints. He dragged in a ragged breath and his ribs hurt on the exhale, even worse.

Raylan tried to put his feet underneath himself as they pulled him up, but he couldn’t quite get there. They thrust him into a chair a moment later anyway and pulled his arms behind his back. He cried out then, wordless and loud, at the pain of stretching his shoulder that unnatural way.

Bo bent down in front of him, sort of squatting, not quite a kneel, to look him in the eyes, still smiling. “Not much of a break,” he said. “My apologies, Marshal.”

Raylan smiled back. He couldn’t help it and he wondered if they got him too hard in the head already and he didn’t even notice. “He’s a lot like you, Boyd is,” Raylan didn’t hold back the fondness from his tone. “It helps if people think you’re cruel, so you act like you don’t mean it. But you are sorry about this. This is the last thing you wanna be doing. You’d respect me if I wasn’t a fag, and if I wasn’t a lawman, and if I wasn’t in your way.”

Bo’s smile fell away. He didn’t say a thing to Raylan’s little speech, instead he drew his gun across his knees, turning it so Raylan could see and asked, “When did you know you were in love with my son?”

Raylan thought about asking, the first time or the second? He thought about clarifying, when I felt it or when I knew what it was? There were about eight or ten different ways he’d fallen for Boyd. He wasn’t going to tell Bo Crowder any of them.

“You think I can’t see that’s what this is?” Bo asked when Raylan didn’t answer. “I raised my sons not to cross me, Marshal. Bowman never had the balls, but Boyd, there’s only a handful of things over which he’d disobey.”

Raylan shifted on the chair. “I know you want me to ask what they are.”

“His woman--and I’m supposing the equivalent is you, his children--should he ever have any, and a great deal of money,” Bo said, very slowly, but with rising intonation, like he was some kind of preacher at a pulpit. “So don’t try and tell me you boys ain’t in love, however sick that makes me to say it. Don’t try to convince me that this is some kind of principle you’re fighting for, because Boyd has his own code, but he doesn’t have one of greater import than the one I fucking spoon fed him in his goddamn diapers.” He wasn’t quite yelling, but his eyes were ablaze and his hand was wrapped tight around that gun. “So, Marshal, I want you to tell me when you fell in love with my son.”

Raylan just shook his head and met Bo’s eyes. He wasn’t afraid, he just wasn’t going to play this game.

But Bo wasn’t having it. “Why don’t you want to tell me, huh? You ashamed, boy?” 

Raylan laughed at that. “I think we’re past the time for shame, Bo. It’s just not for you,” he said. 

“What?” 

Raylan decided to speak like he was talking to a child. He knew it was a bad idea, but he was tired of this shit. His shoulder was screaming and his entire torso shook with every breath he forced through his lungs. “I don’t care if you understand, or fucking approve. It’s ours. Mine and Boyd’s. I don’t have to tell you anything.” 

“Fuck you, Givens,” Bo growled. “Your kin always were a greedy bunch. Even if Boyd loves you--or thinks he does, you think you have more claim on my son than I do? You think _I_ don’t love that boy the same as you? Are you prepared to be the reason he loses his goddamn legacy or his fucking life?” 

“Legacy is bullshit,” Raylan said. “So is fate. Ask my daddy after I send you to hell, you son of a bitch.” Raylan looked at him, cocked his head. “Or maybe I should let Boyd do it instead. Would you like that better?” 

Bo slapped him across the face. Raylan spat at his feet again.

“Get the shit,” Bo growled to one of the boys. “I’m done with him ‘til Boyd gets here.” He crossed to the door, then turned back, eyeing Raylan. “Just enough so we’re certain he can’t get nowhere.”

Raylan glared right back until they put the bag back over his head, and he was tempted to ask, “Just enough what?” Then, he felt the needle slide into his vein. He tried to curse, or laugh, or something, but it sucked him under too fast and he didn’t know anything until he heard Boyd’s voice again.

 

Boyd knew Banks holler just as well as Bo did, maybe better. This was the place where his grandmother had lived in the last years of her life. Boyd and Bowman would visit on weekends, Boyd more than his brother once Bowman got into football in the summers and the fall. 

He parked down the hill from the cabin and walked silently through the woods. As he walked, he thought of his time there.

He knew these hills better than most things, second only to those near his own homestead, and perhaps the dips and curves of Raylan’s body.

He would walk the deer paths, barely visible unless you knew the land, and climb high up into the hills, just about a mile to the east. He would lose himself for hours and then climb back down on the ringing of the chimes at the back door, the one leading right to the kitchen.

Gram would cook and bake for them, smile and sing under her breath and Boyd would sit at the table, big-eyed and hungry, watching her and missing his mother. Though the two women bore no blood relation, Boyd’s memories of them were tied up in each other. His mother, vague and lovely, echoed from a time he could barely reach back to, sort of melded into a picture of Gram, older and bent, but loving him just the same.

When he spoke to Raylan about it, once just recently, on the night Raylan told him about his Mama’s telephone, his boy had looked at him and asked if it bothered him, that his mother was nearly lost, bound up in his memories of another woman. He’d said no, and smiled softly, laying his head against Raylan’s shoulder. 

When he was younger, he’d fretted about it, feeling a helpless, sinking sense of loss as his mother’s memory drifted away from him. But after Gram passed, in the years Raylan was away, he let them be together in his mind, and it didn’t seem so bad. The memories were so similar to each other, and he only thought of them in times of quiet and peace, in times he could bring them out and smile with them and wish he had the talent to sing. 

He told Raylan as much and Raylan had grimaced and said he wished his memories of his mother, however many more he had than Boyd, weren’t so tied up with Arlo. Boyd knew then why he wanted to hold onto the telephone and he’d kissed him quietly before they drifted off together.

Boyd forced himself to shake off those memories, even as he reached for the handle to the kitchen door. Of course, it opened before he could touch it and he had to step back as the door swung open to reveal his daddy, out of his prison orange and looking very much the same as he always had. 

Bo Crowder, seemingly, upon reaching the age of fifty-five, had stopped visibly growing older to all but the very discerning eyes of those who knew him best and saw him often. Boyd, having tried to stop running in the old man’s circles, hadn’t seen him much in the past seven years or so, and often found he looked exactly as he had previously. 

Time could not cow him any more than the law could and Boyd wondered for a moment how he’d even thought he could win this fight. Then he thought of Raylan.

“You think I don’t remember how you like to come into this house?” Bo asked, with a smile that attempted to make Boyd forget they were at odds.

“You assume I was trying to catch you by surprise,” Boyd replied, falling easily back into the old way of speaking contrary, trying to sound smarter than Bo thought he was, and only succeeding half the time.

Bo reached out, perhaps to pull him inside by the arm, like this was some kind of family visit, but Boyd backed up again and his daddy looked at him like that retreat had been a blow. “Where is Raylan?” Boyd asked in a low voice.

“Inside, boy. You comin’?” He turned on his heel and Boyd followed.

He had to stop, quite short, as he stepped into the kitchen. In the family vernacular, the place had always been called a cabin, though it was built nicer than that and housed the family matriarch for over a decade. In most folk’s sense of the world, it was a house, if a small one. It was not at all a rustic hunting stop, but a warm place, with peeling wallpaper and knick-knacks locked away in cabinets with glass doors.

Since Boyd had last set foot inside it, all that had been stripped away. Most of the furniture was gone, even the doors off the cabinets, and all the dishes and appliances. He looked into the next room, the one where his grandmother had slept, where he and Bowman had squeezed together on the trundle bed when they were younger, and saw it bare as well, bereft of any living memory he had harbored some small hope to glimpse. 

Only Raylan was there, tied to a chair--one of the old ones from the kitchen--with a bag over his head. There was blood all over his clothes and his hands were bound behind his back.

“Now, Boyd, let me--” Bo began.

But Boyd wasn’t going to have that. He stepped forward, saying with steel in his tone and in his expression, “Take the bag off him.” 

Raylan, who had been still a moment before, shifted at Boyd’s words, lifting his head, then letting it fall again. Boyd would have run to him if Bo’s hand hadn’t come down hard on his shoulder. “There are some things I got to tell you, boy,” his father said.

“Not until I see his goddamn face, Daddy.” 

Bo shoved him through the doorway, then, like he had no patience left on the matter, and stepped up close behind him, walking around to reach for the bag. It was a rough fabric, not burlap, but white. It might have once held grain or feed. Now, it was stained dark and distinct with Raylan’s blood. Boyd’s hands shook and he was thinking about red splatter on the walls of that motel room. He was staring at all the blood on Raylan’s clothes.

There were two other men in the room. They were both young, shifting around and ogling him. They were untried, probably all Bo could get on short notice, having just come from inside. Boyd thought he might know the bigger one’s brother, but he really didn’t care to ask.

Bo removed the bag with something like a flourish and Boyd hated him with a fire that compounded as soon as he saw the state Raylan was in.

“We had to give him a little something so he don’t try to escape on us,” Bo said, as though he were remarking upon the weather. And Boyd realized he meant that they’d drugged him. “I’ve heard how slippery this little bastard can be.”

Boyd couldn’t take his eyes away from Raylan’s face. His eyes were closed tight, his mouth, cracked at the lip and bleeding from the corner, was turned down in an unpleasant grimace of , perhaps muted, but very real pain. His cheek was a riot of color, deep, purpling red across the cheekbone and a few cuts across his chin and nose which, thankfully, didn’t look broken. 

There were spots of blood on Raylan’s shirt at the shoulder, in an almost checkered pattern, seeping through from where his wounds had torn open from the strain of being pulled back in that unnatural angle.

His hair was mussed and matted with sweat and maybe blood. Boyd felt himself go cold and still at the thought of an unattended head wound. A beating like this was nothing to laugh off, Raylan could very well never recover from these kind of injuries.

Boyd held his breath as Raylan blinked his eyes open slowly, looking up with a terrifyingly blank stare and taking seconds that seemed to stretch into hours to recognize that it was Boyd standing in front of him. Then he began to shake his head, first so minutely it might have been a tremor, then wildly, like he didn’t want to believe that Boyd was really there.

Boyd kept himself from rushing forward because Bo began to speak again, but it was a near thing.

“So, I let you see him, now you’re gonna listen to me, boy. You hear?” His daddy asked harshly. 

Boyd’s eyes did not leave Raylan. “I hear you,” he said.

“This pains me, son. It really does,” Bo said, and Boyd heard him. Raylan’s denial had descended again to a series of shudders and he was opening and closing his mouth like he wanted to speak. But Boyd listened to his father. “You’ve left me no choice, and I want you to know that I am just as upset about it as you, but you’ve forced my hand. So this is how it’s going to go, son. I’m gonna send you on a little errand. If you refuse to go, rest assured I will shoot the good Marshal. If you do not complete this errand and return to us here, I’ll also be putting a bullet in your man. Don’t think I won’t.”

Boyd looked at Bo now and almost smiled, the man was such a good liar. 

He couldn’t kill Raylan. Raylan was a federal officer. He’d get life without parole, that is, if Boyd was alive to testify. There were quite a few variables here, one being Boyd’s own untimely demise, but the only thing of which Boyd was absolutely certain was that Raylan would live.

What kind of life he would return to, that was the real question.

“What do you want me to do, Daddy?” he asked calmly.

Bo looked at him then, like he might know Boyd was onto him, but then he smiled, still with the smugness, the superiority of victory and said, “There’s a shipment of ephedrine coming up from Florida tonight. It’s on a semi that’ll be driven by two Cubans working for my old friend Gio.” 

Boyd tilted his head at that. He thought he heard Raylan once, on a catch up conversation with an old friend, mention that name. He was a big deal in Miami, a very dangerous man, and Bo Crowder was apparently out for revenge after the routes through Harlan were taken away from him. “I want those Cubans dead and that shipment delivered to me by morning. I don’t care how you do it. I know you like to blow shit up, son, so feel free to here, but it would be helpful if not all the drugs were destroyed. And you’ll want to consider manslaughter over straight-up murder. I know this ain’t your first rodeo, so I’ll leave the manner of their deaths up to your discretion.”

Boyd’s lips curled up into something like a smile, though he knew it was strained and probably terrifying. Raylan was looking at him, blinking slowly and trembling slightly with the labor of his breath. “Why, thank you for that, Daddy,” he said. 

Bo laughed. “They’re gonna send you to prison, Boyd, and there, those boys are gonna put so much cock up your ass when you get out--eight to ten years from now--you won’t want to even look at this little pissant again.” He put his hand on Raylan’s shoulder, the wounded one, and Raylan, he fucking whimpered. It was a low sound, one Boyd had never heard come out of that mouth, and the only thing he could think was now Raylan’s blood was on his father’s hands. 

Boyd clenched his fists and held back his own laugh. He got it now, he really did. This was Bo’s long game. This was how he’d get what he wanted. He’d stay in charge for another decade, unless someone put a bullet in him or his heart gave out, and he’d have a son, made bitter and ruthless, to ensure the longevity of his legacy, of the Crowder family’s supremacy. 

He wondered if Bo had factored in Boyd’s sense of independence, or if he thought all that hopelessness would break him, would push him finally to give in to his daddy’s plans in the end. He really didn’t know. In a life without Raylan, what else would he do?

Boyd stepped carefully away from that thought, and looked back again at his father. It was too bad for Bo, that he forgot how adaptable Boyd could be. He could work with this. He could make it his own and he’d get himself and, more importantly, Raylan out of the line of fire.

“Take your hand off him,” Boyd said. Raylan was still staring at him, blinking and shaking his head every once in a while, like he sometimes did when he was drunk and he needed to think about something serious. Boyd usually loved when he did that. Today, he felt sick.

Bo obliged, with that same casual air that was a razor’s edge away from pulling back Boyd’s fairly neutral veneer. He knew that was what Bo wanted, so he forced himself to stay still, probably too still, but it was better than his fingers around his father’s throat and bullets flying at him and Raylan from those boys guns. “So, when all this is finished, you expect me to turn myself in?” he asked.

Bo smiled. “I thought you’d have more respect for the powers of law enforcement these days. If they don’t catch you, Boyd, we’ll do this again until they do.”

“What’s to stop me from implicating you once I’m incarcerated?” Boyd was fairly sure he knew what Bo would say, but--as with Johnny--he wanted to hear it, first-hand.

“Just because he,” Bo replied, nudging Raylan, who let out a short grunt, “ain’t here with me, don’t mean I can’t get to him again. Sure, he’s a smart one, but there’s so many ways a law man can die, son.”

They’d never be safe. Boyd had known that, from the first, not until Bo was dead. He’d always known that.

Boyd nodded and said, “I hope you don’t expect me to shake on this, Daddy. Like we got some kind of real agreement here. I’ll do what you say, and you know that I will, because of these threats. But, I’m gonna have to let you know, you won’t ever get a guarantee from me that this plan of yours is gonna work. Not the long one.”

“It’s designed with that in mind, son. You think I’d overlook your hesitance to participate? I’m gonna take from you, everything that’s keeping you from being what I know that you are. What else will be left to say ‘no’?”

Boyd found himself shrugging. “Hatred. Revenge. All the things that drive you, will drive me away.”

Now Bo smiled again. “You can run, Boyd, but you can’t never get out. We all learn that eventually.”

Boyd said nothing. He let his eyes travel over the empty room. Even the carpet had been pulled up. The scratchy shag of indeterminate brown that made the whole place look like a clearing in the woods, like Gram lived inside a fairy-ring, or under-the-hill. Boyd used to fall asleep on that carpet while she read them the bible after the sun went down.

“What did you do with Gram’s things?” he asked.

“Burned ‘em,” Bo spat. “Land and blood and memory are where the past lives, son. Not in the shit you own. Your grandmother knew that.”

Boyd closed his eyes and opened them only to look at Raylan.

“Now, because I’m not cruel,” Bo said. “Imma let you have five minutes to say goodbye.” His boys followed him out.

After they left, Boyd didn’t hear or feel his feet cross the floor, the space between them; he was just there. His hands shook as he touched Raylan’s face. Raylan didn’t wince or whimper as his fingers grazed the bruises, the cuts and abrasions. He did close his eyes and flinch away, jerking his head up and to the side, until he seemed to remember himself and he opened them again and looked at Boyd. He strained for him then and Boyd sank to his knees. 

He felt his control slipping away from him, spinning out wildly as it had that morning in the motel room, until Raylan coughed up his name. 

“Raylan,” Boyd said. “Raylan, what did he give you?” 

“Tranqs, maybe,” he answered, shaking his head again. “I was out for a while, then I was...” he trailed off there, blinked again and said, “My head hurts, Boyd. I wanted to talk before. When he was here. But it was--it wasn’t right in my head.” His brow was creased in concentration compounded by pain. His pupils were dilated wide, Boyd thought, but the room was too dim to be certain if they were different sizes.

He finally realized why, whenever Boyd asked him, Raylan never wanted to talk too much about the day those assholes had drugged him. It was frankly terrifying, seeing his boy so out of sorts, so far from himself. It was dangerous and Boyd fought to keep the anger out of his voice.

“It’s okay, Raylan. You didn’t have to say anything. Daddy hit you?” 

Raylan leaned into Boyd’s touch when he drew his hands through Raylan’s hair, carefully searching for blood or bruising. He didn’t find anything he could be sure of. Raylan winced and turned away when Boyd pressed softly in two places--one just behind his ear and the other near the crown of his head. There was blood in his hair, but it was dried, flaking Boyd’s fingers a deathly brown-red, and there were no open wounds to be found.

“His boys did,” Raylan answered. “Talked my ear off after. Asked me stupid questions.” His voice had fallen to a mumble and he seemed to have trouble keeping his head up, as if the strain until now had finally become too much.

“Sounds like him,” Boyd said, leaning forward and letting Raylan press his forehead into the crook of Boyd’s neck. 

“You ain’t gonna do what he says,” Raylan told him, his voice muffled. 

Boyd frowned. “And let him kill you?” Though he knew Bo would do no such thing. 

“I dunno. Let him ruin us ‘nstead?” 

It worried Boyd that Raylan hadn't made the same deduction. He should know not many would risk killing a federal agent.

“Raylan,” Boyd said pulling his boy up again, forcing him to look him in the eye. “He won’t kill you and he can’t ruin us. No matter what. I won’t let him.” 

But Raylan didn’t seem to be listening. His eyes wouldn’t stay focused on Boyd and all he did was shake his head. “I can’t--you can’t go to prison, Boyd.” He said this with such an air of finality that Boyd was the one who winced now. 

He knew, they both always knew their relationship couldn’t survive that. It was why Boyd stopped running with those boys so quickly after they came together again. There was no way Raylan’s career could continue if he was so intrinsically linked to a felon, there was no way Raylan would ever forgive him if he lost the Marshals.

“You _can’t_ ,” Raylan said.

“I’m not going to. I’ll figure it out, baby. Don’t worry.” 

Raylan only laughed and Boyd held him closer.

Maybe a minute passed before Raylan roused himself slightly and murmured into Boyd’s neck, “I’m sorry, darlin’.”

Boyd smiled, sad and not a little bitter. “Should’ve known better, telling you what to do. You never listen. Makes you want to do it more.”

“I jus’ thought,” Raylan said, but never finished the sentence. Perhaps he couldn’t rightly remember now what he’d thought. Boyd didn’t really care for that idea.

He sighed and drew his hand up to cradle the back of Raylan’s neck. “It doesn’t matter no more, baby. We’re here. We were always gonna get here. If Daddy knows one thing, it’s how to execute a plan.”

“Art tol’ me not to come too,” Raylan admitted.

“Well, damn, Raylan,” Boyd almost laughed. “I wish I’d known that. I would never have said a goddamn thing. Of course you were gonna go out there. Shit.”

Raylan just pressed harder, as close as he could strain, into him again until Boyd heard his daddy at the doorway. He turned his head to catch Bo watching them, something hard and calculating in his eyes, and Boyd wondered what he was thinking when he saw them together.

It wasn’t that he particularly cared to hear whatever bigoted inner monologue was running through Bo Crowder’s brain at that moment. Boyd didn’t even really think his father believed he was in love with Raylan--just perversely addicted to sodomy or some such lie--but Bo had gone along with it, or seemed to be doing so, in service to his long game or to its alternative. In Harlan County, you’d always best have a back-up plan and Boyd was damn sure Bo had at least three up his sleeve in some variation or other.

It was a good thing Boyd knew how to adapt. It was a damn good thing that’s what he was best at.

“You got places to be, son,” Bo said, as if he really didn’t want to break them up. 

Raylan strained further. He shook his head, rubbing his face in Boyd’s neck. “No,” he grunted. “Don’, Boyd. I’d rather--”

Boyd pulled back violently and made Raylan look at him again. “Don’t you ever say those words to me,” he hissed. “I’ll kill you myself, asshole.” The way Raylan was looking at him was liable to break his heart if he stared any longer, so he stood up on shaky legs and looked down at his boy, who had just enough strength to raise his face. “Trust me,” Boyd said. “I love you.”

Raylan smiled, looking more like himself than he had only a moment before. “You know me.”

As he turned, he looked his father straight in the eyes and said quietly, “Loosen those goddamn ropes. You shot him up high enough he ain’t goin’ anywhere but where you put him. You think things will go any better for you if you take him off the job? With these men, that’s equal to a murder.”

Bo stared at him and tightened his jaw. Boyd knew it may not have been wise to admit he knew Raylan was in no danger of dying that day, but he was sincerely concerned for that shoulder. It might never heal up right, even now.

Bo pushed Boyd back through the door and into the kitchen and the presence of two other men, young still--one slight, all bones and muscles like he and Raylan were at nineteen, and the other built like Bowman used to be, maybe coming straight off the Evarts football team or a short run at U of K or Eastern Kentucky. Boyd saw the past repeating itself in their faces and he scowled at them for not knowing better than he had at that age.

If Bo said their names, Boyd did not care to remember them, but he faced them down as his daddy explained, “Now, these boys, they’ll do what you tell ‘em, son. Up to a point. They ain’t gonna let you call no police, and they’ll sure as hell call me if it seems like you ain’t gonna hold up your end on this. Everything else, you’re callin’ the shots. Got it?”

“I do,” Boyd replied, thinking their presence would make things at the same time less and more difficult than if it had just been him set on this task. Of course, Bo would want insurance. “What’s he paying you?” Boyd asked with a casual smile.

Bo took a threatening step forward and it was a near thing that both boys held their ground at his advance. Bo Crowder was a terrifying son of a bitch and even if these children didn’t cower in front of him, their eyes did get big and they listened hard as he said, “That’s one thing you won’t be discussing. He asks you any weird questions, gives you any shit doesn’t have to do with this robbery, you tell him to shut the hell up and get to fucking work.”

Boyd laughed, low and mean. “Don’t mean I’ll listen,” he said and ducked away when Bo made a grab for his collar. There wasn’t much room to maneuver in the close quarters of Gram’s stripped down kitchen, but Boyd knew where the floorboards would give and where they wouldn’t and he was faster than Bo, coming quickly up and getting his hands around the big man’s neck.

Guns were drawn up from all sides and Bo’s eyes were blazing large and angry in his face as Boyd squeezed tight and said, “You don’t know everything, Daddy. You think you got my number, but you don’t. You can’t see it all because you don’t know.”

He let go when those boys started yelling, loud and scared they might have to pull a trigger, especially on the boss’ son, who was supposed to stay alive and go to jail. Boyd laughed again and backed up fast into the dusty counter.

“Get him out,” Bo growled at them.

Boyd strained against them as they pulled him towards the door. He twisted in their grasp, their lean, dirty fingers wrapped around his arms, and said, “You do not know with what you are screwing, I swear to Almighty God, Daddy.”

Bo spat on the ground, huffing and puffing like he couldn’t catch his breath. “You referring to you or him?”

“Us, Daddy. I’m talkin’ about us.” Boyd smiled again before he turned away. “We contain fucking multitudes.”

 

Boyd learned the boys names on the walk down to his truck from the house. It was easier to concentrate on them and then the task at hand, than to leave his thoughts in that cabin with Raylan.

The skinny one was one Joseph Painter, who went by JoJo, which was stupid as hell. Boyd had always tried to avoid nicknames, even as a young boy. They tended to stick in Harlan, where people’s memories were long. The bigger one was Keith Gordon Buchanan IV, the latest descendant in a long familial line of shit-kicker criminals in Harlan and Bennett, who insisted everyone called him Biggie, “like the rapper.” Boyd didn’t know if he should laugh or cry.

Their hands tightened on their weapons when Boyd pulled his glock out of the duffel bag. But he stared them down and said, “You really thought I could do this without a piece, boys?” They furrowed their brows in confusion and Boyd continued, “You ain’t gonna get shot, not by me. I have a vested interest in ensuring that I stay the hell out of jail, okay? Shooting you boys is near the top of a very long list of things I would love to do today, but unfortunately cannot. You get me?”

They nodded and hopped in the truck bed when he told them to. Boyd smiled grimly as he drove out of the holler. He really did love being listened to.

He drove them first to a bank, the credit union in Harlan itself. When they stared at him, dumbstruck again he laughed and said, “Jesus, no, children. I don’t need to rob no bank. I’m goin’ to the goddamn ATM. Wait here.” He walked casually to the machine and pulled out his wallet, looking long at the reflective mirrors at both high corners of that great big plastic box, knowing that’s where the cameras were housed.

Months ago, he’d scoffed when Raylan had slid a shiny new credit card across the kitchen table at him. It had Raylan’s name on it, but Boyd knew it had been opened for him. “In case of emergencies,” Raylan said, keeping his eyes steady on him. “There’s a pin attached, too,” he added. “If you need cash fast.” Boyd had taken it because Raylan was serious. It was only a day or so after the shit with Bowman at their front door, and they were both a little shaken. He was glad he had it now, though not for the reasons Raylan had got the damn thing.

He took out a hundred dollars and nodded at the cameras again before he turned away. Then he drove to see Bill.

 

Tucked away close off the Britton Creek Road, there was a house. And on the side of that house, stood a big old garage, out of which an old man named Bill sold people weaponry.

Boyd had known the man since he was a small child. Bo frequented the makeshift store on occasion, looking for heavy hitting handguns or illegally altered shotguns and assault rifles, not that he needed the last very often. Boyd had purchased his own supplies at this establishment on more than one occasion. He and Billy, Boyd had often mused, were kindred spirits, of a particular kind.

Boyd drove down into the man’s property, and when he parked, he bid the boys follow him into the garage.

Inside, the place seemed to house the requisite amount of spare parts and rusted family heirlooms of any old storage space, but if you knew what you were looking for, there was a veritable armory of useful and destructive items hidden in plain sight.

To the right of the large doors, Boyd turned his attention to a workbench, situated very much like the counter at a convenience or grocery store, and the man standing behind it with a scatter gun in his hands, though he wasn’t aiming it at anybody just yet. Boyd put his own hands in the air, not very high, and the boys behind him followed suit.

“Hello, Billy,” Boyd said in a friendly way.

The man, aged at least ten years in seven since Boyd had last seen him, looked at him long, glanced cursorily at the boys behind him, and said, “Ain’t seen you in here in a while, son.”

Boyd shrugged his shoulders, keeping his hands up. “Can’t say I’ve had a need in a while, my friend.”

Billy’s eyes were ice blue and hard as diamonds. “Heard you been close with the law. Why should I even give you the time of day, here?” There was no room for sentiment in his business, Boyd had no illusions on that score.

Boyd smiled. “You been workin’ with fugitives, Bill?”

“You know who I sell to, you got an inklin’ where I buy from, and you know I hate change. What do you think?”

“I think I been close with the kind of law, don’t give a shit about you and your business, then.”

Billy looked at him again, that same assessing gaze then nodded, sliding the gun under his bench. He rested his hands on the surface of it, as if inviting Boyd to look around.

Boyd grinned now. He ran his hand along a heavy plastic case pressed up against the wall, it probably contained several highly illegal automatic weapons. “So, tell me, what have you got in the general area of rocket launchers these days?”

Billy, the maniac, grinned right back.

Boyd had his money on the table, all of it since he didn’t care to haggle today, and his fingers running up and down a beauty of a lady of destruction. He thought of the guns they’d let him fire in Kuwait, the grenades he’d thrown just for the hell of it, and the last time he’d been to Billy’s, for an assault weapon he’d never fired. He left that one with Devil and took himself to the Givens house.

He thought of Raylan and smiled that a girl was a girl and a ship was a lady and so was a gun, but he’d slept with a man more times than he could count. He knew he’d only fire this girl once. He’d treat her right for an evening, but then they’d probably store her in an evidence locker for years to come. It was almost tragic.

“You ain’t planning to point this thing at your daddy, are you, Boyd?” Billy asked as Boyd hefted her.

“Nah,” Boyd answered, smiling, knowing just what he was going to do and that it was going to work. “Don’t you worry about that, my friend.”

Billy didn’t look half convinced, and Boyd figured neither did those boys, who hadn’t said one word the entire time they’d been there. “You remember how to use one of these, son?”

“Bill,” Boyd replied, flipping the trigger while she was blessedly empty, “I have a deep feeling that it is just like riding a bicycle.”

 

They pulled him off the chair after Boyd left. 

Raylan didn’t remember making a sound, but they told him to quit whining and dropped him to the floor. His shoulder was on fire, smouldering too hot to touch, too hot to stand, even with whatever they pumped into him. He almost asked for more, it hurt so bad.

But he didn’t want it, not really. So he laid there a while and cradled it in his hand, rocking back and forth, but falling still whenever anyone approached him.

Bo came in once, said something to him. But he wasn’t Boyd, so Raylan didn’t care, couldn’t muster the energy. He lost some time and when his head cleared a little, but just not quite enough, he made the mistake of lifting it up, looking around. He tried to get up and they came in with another shot of something. This time it was warm in his blood, not cold, and it didn’t suck him under, just pulled him far away.

Someone propped him up against something, it was hard at his back. But he could see out a window. It looked sunny and warm and he thought about the times Boyd wanted to take a walk and he’d just pull him back into bed, always saying, some other time. He thought he could walk now. Maybe he’d find Boyd.

But then there was that question again. 

When did he fall in love with Boyd? When did he know?

And Raylan squirmed and closed his eyes, and thought, why not answer?

He fell for Boyd in the mine. He must have. But he was scared, he remembered that. 

So many of his other memories were eaten away by that fear, and it lingered for a long time, tied up tight in his feelings for Boyd. It lingered so long, he got real used to pushing away that fear, and he pushed Boyd away too. 

Maybe. Maybe he pushed Boyd away for more reasons than that. But he didn’t know what they were any more than he could say when it was, for certain, he fell in love with him.

But it started in the mine, no matter what Boyd said about that backwoods party. The mine was what he remembered, for the most part. They hadn’t been friends before that, Raylan hadn’t noticed him, not that way.

It was Boyd who made it a point to talk to Raylan. Raylan hadn't wanted to talk to anyone, he was there to do his job. He had nothing else, couldn’t think about anything else. Boyd was the only one who saw how scared he was.

The first time the ceiling rumbled, a close call that would have put them under for hours, Raylan went so still he thought his bones might break from the strain. It was Boyd who saw that, Boyd who came up close to him, but didn’t touch, and leaned in and said, loud in his ear over the machines, “You’re okay, Raylan.” He touched his shoulder, just lightly through the heavy fabric of his coveralls, and Raylan could move again.

That was good. That was what Raylan needed, but it didn’t take away his fear. 

It was hot in the mine, because of the machines, hotter than hell the men would say. Raylan heard that and saw flames lick at the corners of his vision, making him twitchy and taciturn, leaving him lost in his thoughts, which was dangerous as fuck. He knew the mine was hell, had known that before he went down, he didn’t need them to tell him. 

But Boyd would bring him back, shake his head and say, “It’s not so bad. You can’t think about it that way, Raylan.” Then, when they would come back up, Raylan always went first, and when Boyd followed him, Raylan would be waiting. Boyd would kiss the sky and smile. That smile was why Raylan waited. It was what he needed and Boyd knew that. 

Then they would get drunk. And maybe he knew then, too. Boyd seemed to know, always touching him and smiling and laughing. Years later, when Raylan thought about it, he was certain Boyd knew for a long time before that party when he said those things. But after, when Raylan knew he wanted Boyd, that's all he thought it was, just want, too dangerous to indulge in, too fierce to ignore. But he pushed it away and hoped Boyd had forgotten.

But he didn’t.

No, he still smiled the same and touched Raylan and Raylan could never pull away from that. He got drawn in and kept himself in Boyd’s orbit and let it distract him from the mine, from home, which was a hell unto itself.

It was close in the mine, just as close as it was hot. But it was closer inside that house, when it seemed like the tension in the air could change course on the turn of a dime, when no one knew what that man would do from one minute to the next. Raylan thought he’d gotten his fear of the mine straight from his fear of Arlo. It was all the same danger to him, the same terror, the same nightmare.

It would all eventually come down around his head.

So it did.

Yes, he had just come back from mine the second to last time he saw Arlo hit his mother. Helen was waiting in the car and Mama had her bag packed, the little one that meant Noble’s holler. Arlo clocked her one, across the mouth, in the hallway and Raylan raced down the walk from his pickup, up the stairs, and inside, pushing back rough at Arlo to let her get out the door. 

He always told her not to come back, always, but she always did. For years, she did it for him. Arlo would never have let her take him away, but he’d been grown long enough by then. He said that too, told her again. And that time, she turned around in the entryway, he remembered, and looked at him, her sad, tired eyes, stricken with fear and asking forgiveness. It had been a long time since she tried to put on a brave face for him.

Raylan evaded Arlo’s grasp, barely listening to his yelling, grabbed a change of clothes and went right back out. He found Boyd at Johnny’s and didn’t come home again for days. The house was too close, even when Mama was gone.

The house was empty when he came back. He knew Arlo would be down at the VFW. He hated the place even more when it was quiet, because he knew nothing could touch him, but he still felt that fear, like Arlo lived in the walls to torment him, or he’d stumble around a corner and find her dead on the floor, that way for hours and he wouldn’t have known.

She came back while he was in the shower, he heard the door close and no thumping or yelling. He came out in a towel and watched her unpack her bag. What was she doing? Why was she there?

She’d looked at him and smiled and all he saw was despair. “Where else would I go, darlin’?”

Away. She would go away and not come back. It didn’t matter where. Just not there, not that house, not anymore.

She touched him, soft on the cheek, and she smiled again and he wouldn’t cry. She said, “Starting over’s for the young. The world’s too big for me.” Her eyes were certain and that made Raylan afraid, more afraid than he’d ever been. “You been gone a lot,” she said, looking away as she lied, “he’s not always so bad lately. You get his blood running. Don’t ask me why.”

Raylan left again, as fast as he could, wanting so badly to believe her. He lost himself in the mine, in the crushing whirr of the machines, in the heat and the lamplight and in Boyd’s smile, that always brought him back. 

When he went home again, Arlo was there, drunk and mad, destructive as a twister. There was a red mark under her eye. He looked at them both, fists bunched up in anger, standing in the doorway to the kitchen, with the phone hanging off the hook, the dial tone high and insistent in his ear. His mother was shaking her head at him and suddenly, he lost it, all that tension, all his righteous fury. It left him and he looked at them and all he was was tired. 

All he could think was, why bother? And he was turning away, ready to trudge up the stairs and fall asleep to the sound of those blows, when Arlo called after him, “And you thought you was gonna save her,” with his disgusted sneer.

Raylan felt the bile rise up inside him and his fists clenched again and he forced it down, running back out the door and to his truck. The drive to Helen’s was a blur and the only thing he remembered now was the taste of sick in his mouth after he lost the contents of his stomach in her yard. Helen rushed from the house and made him look at her as she asked, “Did he hit you in the head?”

No, he’d told her. He hadn’t touched him. She asked her concussion questions anyway and he answered them all and held onto his anger like it was a lifeline. She told him to sleep, but he couldn’t, even that was too much like giving up. She pushed the money at him and he stared at it, but left it on the table. He went to the mine that day because Boyd was there.

He left his thoughts at home, where his grip on that anger had slipped away, almost forever, he thought. He felt the fear take hold of him and he couldn’t breathe for it and then the ceiling rumbled above and he thought, he didn’t know what, but he froze again until Boyd pull him near off his feet and away. 

Boyd said, “Run, Jesus, Raylan, run,” and his eyes were afraid too. That’s how Raylan knew it was real and he nearly lost his mind along with his life. 

They weren’t trapped for long, he knew that because Boyd kept saying, “Not long now,” and kept his hands tight over Raylan’s trembling ones, let him cling to him, to his fingers, his clothes, anything, let him press his face into his lap when he didn’t want to look at the walls anymore and told everyone who looked their way that he was just sick. He told Boyd about losing the anger, in stuttered words and half-finished sentences, and Boyd said, “But you got it back. You’re okay, Raylan.”

But Raylan wasn’t and he said so, he was tired and now he knew tired meant defeated and that made him scared, more scared than the mine ever had. And Boyd said, “I’m here, Raylan,” and Raylan knew that and he loved it, but the fear made him forget. He realized he needed to get out.

When they let the light in and he and Boyd kissed the sky, Raylan went straight to Helen’s. He left Boyd in the changing room, not bothering to wash up himself. He took her money and heard her say, “Don’t come back. Not ‘til he’s dead.”

But he couldn’t leave without seeing Boyd.

No, of course not.

He couldn’t. And when he found Boyd, half-drunk and wild-eyed at Johnny’s he pulled him off the barstool and out the door. Boyd was stone-faced, serious. He had something on his mind. “Where did you go?” he asked.

Raylan said Helen’s. He said he had something to tell Boyd. Boyd’s hands were on his arms, clinging tight, though he was steady enough on his feet. He said, “No, I gotta say somethin’ first.” 

Raylan let him talk because he didn’t want to say his piece just yet. He didn’t know later if he was glad he had or wished he’d just gone.

Boyd’s eyes were wide and he looked more scared than he had earlier that day. "I didn’t know where you went--” he started then swallowed and said the rest, fast as breathing. He didn’t let go of Raylan’s arms. “All I do is think about you, Raylan. All I do is want you. And today. Today, I might have lost you and you would never have known. And I didn’t know-- And I couldn't bear that. I couldn't stand it another minute, Raylan. Do you... even know what that means?"

Raylan remembered thinking for less than a moment, that it might mean something big, but all he could do was shake his head and say he was leaving.

“Leaving,” Boyd repeated, like he’d forgotten what the word meant. “Because of today... last night. Because of Arlo.”

Raylan nodded. He looked at the boy but his thoughts were on the road, on the urgent need to get away, before he gave up, before he lost himself. He wanted this, wanted Boyd so badly, he thought, but not enough to stay there, to lose everything else. 

Boyd was not something he could have, nor that he could keep. Not in Harlan. Boyd must know that. Boyd always knew. He said Boyd’s name, choked on it, shook his head and said there wasn’t anything for him there. He was getting swallowed up, beaten down. He couldn’t stay. Not now.

“Not now,” Boyd said and raised his eyes to Raylan’s. They were dark, Raylan remembered that, though the rest of him was lit up by the street light above them. Then suddenly, they cleared and Boyd smiled softly at him, his private smile the one he only showed to the sun and to Raylan, and he leaned in and kissed him. 

“You should,” he whispered and kissed him again, this time longer and fuller and Raylan kissed back, hardly knowing what he was doing, and they clung to each other, for maybe a while.

When they broke apart, Raylan didn’t know what to say. He looked at Boyd who was just as flushed, just as messed up from hands and lips, and saw him smile again, grin really, wide and almost manic, like he was too full to hold it all in. “You’ll come back,” he said. “You’ll have to. Someday.”

And Raylan had gone. But then, he came back. He did.

Why?

First, he came back for his mother, or he thought he had. But the thing on his mind all through the funeral service had only been where Boyd was. Why he wouldn’t have come. 

He’d seen Helen watching him. Her eyes were on his hands, twisting up the little half-page pamphlet the church ladies had made for the service, nervous and tight. She’d motioned at him to stop, but he couldn’t. He wanted Boyd there.

He went to look for him, dropping the roses he’d bought on the grave without much more than a glance, and tripping over the stone marked with his name in his haste to get away.

He left Harlan hours later, Johnny’s words echoing in his mind, scaring the shit out of him. 

“Didn’t you hear? Boyd joined the army. He’s in Kuwait, waitin’ on Saddam to start that shit up again.”

He came back the second time for Helen. Or so he told her on the phone as soon as she started in on what Arlo might have wanted. She said to come for the house, but all he was thinking of on the plane from Salt Lake was Boyd standing under that streetlight, smiling like he’d wait a hundred years.

If he had thought hard enough then, when Boyd had told him those things, had asked him, “Do you know what that means?” and if he’d had an answer, the right one and not the easy one, would he have made a different choice?

Could he have stayed, with all that pressure, the threat of that loss? Would they have gone together, made a new life? He didn’t have those answers.

Yes, but when did you know?

When they’d fucked the first time, after Arlo’s funeral, and the swastika loomed large and Raylan offered Boyd the house. He knew then, and he forgot. He didn’t think about it, didn’t try to remember. He just came back because he wanted to and it was just want and only that.

He should have known when he couldn’t fuck Winona when she asked so pretty with those big eyes of hers. She’d wanted him so bad, he could tell. But all he could think of was Boyd and how if he bought her another drink, another date or two, he wouldn’t have that money to buy another plane ticket. He should have known when he wanted Boyd more than he wanted to be away from Harlan. Maybe he did, he was just so good at forgetting by then.

He knew when he saw Boyd coming out of his old room the second time, when he knew that the boy had been sleeping there. But then they’d fucked again and it was so good and only good and Raylan was done with thinking. 

He knew when Boyd smiled and told him Helen knew and she was fine with it and something had filled him up so fast and furious he’d mistaken it for anger. He didn’t know what it was as he walked out the door, but he was scared in a way he’d never been before, because he loved that woman and she knew and that was fine, but somehow it wasn’t, it couldn’t be. So he left.

He thought he knew when Boyd looked at him like he could tell just what was wrong after he asked to be fucked, after he’d raced back to Harlan, to Boyd, in the wake of his first shooting in three years. They liked him ‘cause he shot people, didn’t hesitate. That’s why they let him teach later, but that was before the time Raylan grew numb to it and that man’s face was seared into his brain until he saw Boyd again, until he asked the boy to do him. Boyd almost said no, Raylan could tell, but he fucked him anyway and it was so sweet, he must have known then, because he thought about staying and fucking all the damn time, even though he knew he couldn’t. He got the transfer to Glynco after that and maybe he should have known then too.

He might have known when Art asked him to come with him to Lexington and all he wanted to do was say yes immediately. But then, he thought about Boyd. Maybe he didn’t want Raylan there so much. He’d have to talk to Boyd and he got nervous and weird about it and he couldn’t stop himself from being that way. So, he thought about that instead of how badly he wanted it, or why.

But he always forgot those things right after they happened, because something distracted him or he wasn’t ready, or because Boyd was so far away and he couldn’t see and smile at him and show him it was fine. It was never fine unless Boyd knew it too, so he pushed it away and he forgot.

Until Boyd was there again and made him talk about it and made him see until he was so afraid that he thought he might lose him and he knew he never would have come back from that. So he said it first, even though he knew, had always known somewhere, that Boyd had loved him first and more and too much for someone like him.

Too much for someone so closed off, for such a loner, such a liar. 

They always said they wouldn’t lie and he’d lied about Little Sandy.

Why did you lie?

He shouldn’t have done it. He should have trusted Boyd. Boyd said it would be fine. He should know. It was his daddy. Raylan should have believed him, he always had before.

Why not this time?

Because maybe being with Raylan had changed him, too much. Maybe he wasn’t what he was before, what he could be, and that scared Raylan. That he had that power over Boyd and he’d used it to destroy him.

Boyd doesn’t think that.

How would Boyd know?

There was no answer, not for a long time it seemed like. But then, someone laughed, and he was hit in the head, maybe, because the world ran red and then went black. For a long long time.

 

Mr. Tom Petty was right, Boyd mused, hours later. The waiting was the hardest part.

Everything was set up. The boys had assured him of the time the shipment would be coming through and Boyd had figured the best place to do what he needed to. He’d called Johnny, with those boys unsuspecting blessing--another Crowder wouldn’t try to sabotage anything, not with Bo to answer to--and told him when to come and how much rope to bring with him.

They drove to the place as the sun was falling behind the trees in the holler, but this was Harlan and as that goddamn song said, the sun always did set at about three in the day. 

Boyd wished those boys hadn’t asked him to turn the radio on, because he was going to be thinking in progressively worse song lyrics for the rest of the night. They had hours more to wait and Boyd tried not to dwell much on what Bo was doing to Raylan, in Boyd’s absence, just to hurt him, just to drive them apart. 

They were parked off the road a ways, Boyd sitting in the cab with the windows rolled down and the two boys spread out in the truck bed, enjoying a late lunch of burgers and fries from a place a few miles closer to civilization. Boyd found, when called upon to order, that he had no appetite and just got himself a large coke, which he was sipping silently, letting the breeze of early fall and the terrible pop-infused sounds of modern country music just flow right over him

The song on the station changed to something with a bigger, more overly produced, twang than Boyd ever found himself enjoying these days. It always portended the worst in redneck, red state self-importance. One of the boys let out a little whoop, like this was his favorite song coming on and Boyd cringed when he heard the deep, preposterous voice of Mr. Toby Keith start singing about the nobility and sacrifice of the American soldier.

“Jesus Christ,” Boyd heard himself say with more vehemence than he’d intended. 

The boys both turned to look at him, JoJo with a startled look on his face, as if he wanted to ask, “you _don’t_ like this, too?”

Boyd raised his hand up to the knob on the dash and told them, “As a Veteran myself, children, I reserve the right to not have to fill my ears with this proletariat-pandering, empty-headed, poorly-composed garbage. I’m turning this dial right now and neither one of you are gonna give me any shit about it, got that?”

He flipped the switch over to one of the public radio stations. It was late afternoon, so a man with a low, dry voice was reading the news. Boyd knew sooner or later they would go back to the mix of folk and blues and bluegrass that he liked to put on in the evenings when Raylan was gone, or when it seemed like he'd tolerate it coming through the house.

“What is this?” Keith Gordon--Boyd refused to think of the boy as “Biggie”--asked with not a little disgust in his tone.

“National Public Radio,” Boyd answered, closing his eyes.

“Shit,” he laughed. “You are a fuckin’ fag.”

On any other day, Boyd might have grinned. On some other days, he may also have punched the little shit in the mouth, but today, he didn’t have the energy for either action.

He just waited about a half a minute, letting their air fill up with news from the Gulf, with names of places he’d been before and wouldn’t wish on any young man or woman, then said, “Eat up, boys, we got a long night ahead of us.”

 

At quarter to midnight, Johnny showed up and Boyd walked over to where he’d parked, maybe twenty feet from Boyd’s truck. His cousin looked raring for a fight, not necessarily nervous, but Boyd knew him well enough to realize that's what it was. 

“Johnny,” he greeted and gave him a warm embrace, leaning in low and saying, “Tell the big one you need help gettin’ something out of the back. But wait ‘til they’re both close. I can get the other one.”

“You think _I_ can handle the big one by myself?” Johnny muttered.

“I remember you did wrestling that one year in the winter-time, before baseball started up again,” Boyd said, smiling like they were sharing a joke. “Get creative.”

Johnny did as Boyd told him, but Keith Gordon proved to be a little bit quicker on the uptake than Boyd might have given him credit for and he swung out at Johnny, connecting before the man could duck under, shouting to his oblivious friend, “Run, JoJo,” before Boyd could get the rope up and around the boy’s neck. Choking a man into submission was not Boyd’s favorite past time, but he enjoyed running one down across a field in the dark even less.

Boyd was lucky, not only because the boy stumbled more, tripping over rocks and a few scattered brambles, but also because he was a smoker--Boyd had seen him near chain-smoking half a pack in their downtime that day--so he slowed sooner than Boyd did as well. When Boyd was close enough to his quarry, he snatched at the collar of his shirt, snapping it back viciously and hauling him to the ground. 

Boyd was also lucky he’d had the rope still in his hands, so he could just kneel down on JoJo’s spine and wrap up his hands and arms. He left the boy’s feet unshackled, but pressed his pocket knife to his hamstring and growled, “It would be easy enough to say you nicked yourself on one of those pointy rocks, son. Now, get up and walk before you tempt me to cut you.”

As he’d suspected, the boy was dumb enough to believe that pack of lies and scrambled to his feet, walking docilely in the direction Boyd pointed him.

Johnny had the other one tied up when Boyd got back, but there was a good-sized shiner across his cheek that appeared to be growing darker by the second. Boyd decided not to ask how he finally got him down. At least Johnny was dependable in a fight, as Boyd was distinctly out of practice. Though he knew his instincts were still all right, he’d decided the odds were better with him going against the smaller of the two opponents.

They shoved JoJo into the bed of the truck and settled down to wait for another hour and a half at least, while Boyd detailed his plan to Johnny. When they were done with that, Johnny looked at him sidelong, paused for a beat, then seemed to decide to ask his question. “I thought Ava hated you,” he said, confusion in his expression. “She was real worried when I got over to her place. Wouldn’t stop asking questions, mostly shit I didn’t know the answer to.”

Boyd shrugged, but smiled as well. “Things change. She knows I ain’t the way I used to be. I been helping her a little, now that Bowman’s gone. A little before that, too. And she likes Raylan.”

Johnny’s eyes got big then, like he hadn’t expected Boyd to talk about his man as if they were together, as if he was a real part of his life. Boyd knew why, that it was just the strangeness of it, the novelty. So he looked back at Johnny, real steady, and said, “Daddy’s got Raylan, Johnny. The only reason any of this is happening is because of that. Do you understand?”

Johnny straightened up, his face going hard and serious. “What’s he going to say about our arrangement?”

Boyd took a breath. Truth be told, he didn’t know, but he replied calmly, “I’m going to tell him I made a deal with you. In good faith. Because I had very few options. Raylan, for all his lawman ways, is a Harlan boy and a pragmatic one at that. He’ll understand and he won’t ask too many questions. He trusts me, as I do him. But I won’t ever cross the line he draws for me, all right?”

“Where is that line, Boyd?”

“It ain’t been drawn yet. One thing you gotta get in your mind, son, is even though I look it, and I act it, I don’t always have the answers. You keep that philosophy and people will follow you even if I’m not the one calling the shots.” He dumped what was left of his coke, just some tepid water, out the window and tossed the cup onto the floor of Johnny’s truck. “Now, let’s get this thing on the road. They’ll be comin’ up any minute now.”

Johnny’s mouth twisted up, like he was thinking hard and was pissed all at the same time, but did as he was bid, turning the engine and throwing the vehicle into gear. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Boyd,” he said.

Boyd hoped so too, for all their sakes.

 

By on the road, Boyd meant literally, in the middle of the damn road. 

Johnny was skeptical, Boyd could tell. “This is too obvious,” he said softly, like speaking louder would make the words true. “They’re gonna know something is up.”

Boyd shook his head. “Not if you sell it,” he insisted. “They won’t know fast enough. You can’t sell this, Johnny, you can’t keep Harlan in your hands. Got that?”

“Jesus,” his cousin breathed. “How do you fuckin’ know anyhow, Boyd?”

“I used to think about it a lot,” Boyd smirked. “And I watched Daddy, all my life.” His eyes went to the distance, where there were twin headlights coming down on them. “I’m gonna get back there now. Only get out when they slow. Make ‘em wait, all right?”

“I got it, Boyd,” Johnny said and Boyd slipped out the passenger side.

He waited in the darkness, silent, listening for just the right moment..

He heard the truck stop, the doors open, and two sets of feet jump down.

A woman's voice yelled in a thick Cuban accent, "What are you doing? Get out of the fucking road.” He heard them approach with quick, angry steps.

Johnny took a beat to answer, playing it just right, keeping them a little off guard, and waiting for them to get a safe distance away. "It's broke down," he told them. "Sorry, I just need like a jump, or--

He broke off when Boyd made his move. Hefting that beautiful lady onto his shoulder, he stepped out and away from Johnny's truck and, taking a calming breath, he cried, " _Fire in the hole_ ," before pulling her trigger.

Johnny threw himself to the ground first, but it was the explosion that knocked the other two down. Boyd could see, as he was rushing up toward them, that it was a woman and a boy about the same age as the ones he had tied up in the truck. They weren't expecting it, and were knocked senseless, eyes screwed shut and hands over their ears. Boyd had known--so had Johnny, but he was still on the ground as well--so he was the one to get there first, bending down low to snatch up the woman's hand gun, a heavy-hitting Glock, and to kick the boy's automatic weapon well away.

Boyd felt the heat of the flames from the truck grow higher and he figured the gas tank would go in about a minute. He pulled his own gun from the back of his waistband and held one weapon on each of them. 

They opened their eyes, both pissed as hell, as he told them, "I can take you to the man who ordered that this task be done and I can help you put as many bullets as you want in him, or I can kill you right here and right now. You got about thirty seconds to decide before we're all goin' up in flames."

"Why should we believe you want to sell your boss to my brother?" she asked and Boyd felt a little more respect for her then he'd been anticipating. She was an older woman, hard-looking, but beautiful in the way Boyd thought Helen was when he was feeling in a particularly warm mood. The boy was looking everywhere but at Boyd, clearly fearing for his life and wanting to get far away from the flames.

"He ain't my boss," Boyd told her. "He's my daddy and he's keeping someone very dear to me in harm's way so that I would do this for him. For reasons not of my own making, I can't kill the man. So I'm going to let you do it. I'll take you to him, but you gotta have a little faith, ma'am."

She blinked twice, then held out her hand to him and Boyd put back his weapon before he pulled her to her feet. "A wayward son," she said with a considering smile. "I have had boys like you. Your father has made you do this thing? To bring you home to him?"

He pulled her away from the flames and the boy followed, nervously looking back. Just as they made it an even safer distance away, the gas tank exploded in a bright flash and a thunderous boom. The boy was shaking and the woman put her hand on his shoulder.

"Yes," Boyd replied. "And he'll lose his life over it. My home was never with him."

"I have met the man, I think," she said. "He does not hold much love in his heart. It's a difficult thing, ruling a family and an empire with no love. I'm not surprised he will lose them both today."

Boyd nodded to her, having very little words or inclination to respond, then turned to Johnny who was looking at the burning semi. "Would have been nice," he said, mostly to himself it seemed, "to get some of that ephedrine."

"You got time, Johnny," Boyd said. "And we got some new friends today." He turned to the two cubans, who were ash-dirty and breathing heavily. Boyd knew he must look the same to them. He held out his hand, this time to shake. "My name's Boyd Crowder. This is my cousin Johnny. He'll be waiting here with the boys for the law. I'll be taking you to Bo."

"Angela," the woman said. "Gio is my brother. This is my nephew, my husband's sister's son. His name is Ernesto. What do you mean, wait with the boys?"

Boyd motioned to the truck bed and when Angela looked in, her eyes widened. "Some kids my daddy thought would keep me in line enough to do his bidding properly."

"These children could not watch a pot boil, by the look of them," she murmured derisively and Boyd found himself laughing.

"Johnny will be here to wait for the Marshals and to tell them where we are. We'll have anywhere between two and four hours by my count to get done what we need to. If you're still alive after it's over, you'd best be gone before they catch up with us." Boyd told her as they walked back to his own vehicle.

"You want the law?" she asked incredulously. The boy's face became dark with suspicion.

"The person my daddy has taken from me is a Federal Marshal. They'll be after us no matter what. If you can't kill him, they'll take him to prison. I can't be involved if I want to keep what's mine."

Angela crooned some kind of epithet or curse in Spanish. "Your hands are surely tied, poor boy."

They didn’t speak much on their way to Banks holler.

 

Boyd had the Cubans hide themselves low in the bed of his truck and he drove this time right up to the cabin, his gun in his hand, safety off.

Bo was waiting for them on the cabin's porch. He had a pistol in his hand. Boyd did not bother to conceal his weapon and, as he exited the vehicle, when his daddy saw that he was carrying, the man raised his gun. "Where are those boys, Boyd?" Bo asked slowly, a certainty of suspicion in his tone. "No way you killed them."

"Are you sure?" Boyd asked. "There's a possibility I got these lawmen so far in my pocket on account of Raylan, Daddy, that they'll slide me a manslaughter plea for defending myself. Could be I only get probation for murderin', like Ava did."

Bo bristled at the mention of Bowman's death, but he recovered in a moment, unfazed. "There's oversight for that shit, son. You ain't foolin' me. There's another department or three, federal, state, local, they won't all look the other way."

"You know that they do, sometimes."

"Not for the likes of you, or of Raylan fucking Givens. He's not high up enough. He's a shit-kicker for them, an errand boy, a problem and a half sometimes as well. I looked, Boyd. You think I didn't?"

"You _heard_ , Daddy. There's not much looking to do behind bars. You'll find that out again soon enough."

Now Bo looked both surprised and pissed as hell. "You got them comin' here for me? You called them in? You fucking--where are those boys, Boyd?"

Boyd smiled. This was the thing Bo feared. He didn't have those children's loyalty, nor did he hold enough fear over them to stop them from rolling over on him. If things went sideways, Bo had planned to kill all four. Boyd hoped they would be grateful, for his saving their miserable lives.

"I'll tell you, if you give me Raylan. I did what you wanted, got rid of that semi--"

"How do I know, huh? You don't have them boys here to tell me so."

"Don't you trust me, Daddy?" Boyd asked sweetly, and then his eyes widened and his heart gave a great stutter because Raylan himself, beat to hell, skin all blue and black and red, rumpled clothes covered in blood-splatter and grime, came walking, real slow and deliberate, right out the front door of the cabin. There was death in his eyes, deep anger and sincere hatred and a cold remoteness that Boyd only remembered seeing once before, the day Dickie Bennet's knee met the hard side of a teenaged Raylan's aluminum bat. 

"Fuck you, Boyd--" Bo had been saying, oblivious. The man Boyd knew as Raylan, loved like his own life, seemed barely there as he stepped softly right up behind Bo and pressed the barrel of his gun to the back of his neck.

"You're dead, asshole," Raylan said. 

Then the Cubans stood up, three feet higher than anybody else in that holler, and Boyd shouted, "Raylan, get down," wishing that in the process he hadn't warned Bo as well, before he threw himself off to the side and out of the line of fire.

Raylan was on the ground in a second, training blessedly keeping his reflexes quick, and Boyd told himself there hadn't been enough time for one of those automatic bullets to burrow deep into his flesh. He was crawling his way behind the pillars of Boyd's grandmother's porch. Bo had done the same on the opposite side.

"Do not shoot the second man," Boyd yelled to the Cubans as they jumped out of the bed and Angela nodded, continuing to shoot at Bo in short, controlled spurts. The bullets going straight through the old, weathered wood of each pillar and rod in the fence and railing. Boyd had never known such terror, seeing those deadly things come so fast, so close to his boy.

Bo got off a shot or two from behind the sturdiest pillar at the edge of the porch between rounds of the automatic and one hit Angela in the shoulder. She cried out, loud and pained, and Ernesto lost it. Boyd couldn't do anything, too afraid of what Raylan would do if he entered the fray now, as he watched the boy let off an extended round, pulling that trigger until there was no ammunition left in the weapon.

Angela was still on her feet and she was shouting rapidly at the boy in Spanish, but he didn't hear her in time and the gun was empty and Bo got him in the chest while they were looking at each other. Angela fell to her knees then, crawling desperately towards him, gun still in hand.

Bo stepped out as she wept, clutching at her nephew's shoulder, but with her body angled still towards the danger. Bo thought she hadn't seen him, but Boyd could see her face and she was seething through her tears, but patient, waiting for him to get near enough. She pulled a smaller gun, a derringer or some such from her boot, out of Bo's sight, but could not raise it fast enough to aim at his head before he put her down. She pulled a second later and hit him in the gut, when he'd got her, as he had Ernesto, high in the chest.

They both fell at the same time. It was Angela who Boyd ran to first.

She was coughing up blood, wet and thick, when he reached her. "Guess...that I did not make it, after all," she said slowly.

Boyd did not offer her assurances. There was no way the Marshals, or anybody else, were close enough to save her. "I'm so sorry," he said. He did not touch her, either. He didn't believe that would be welcome.

"I know...that your cousin...wanted Gio's business--"

"Please, don't--"

But she kept talking, raising her hand to silence him. "You...have him tell Gio...you boys... can be trusted... in the same way as his... Tommy Bucks..."

"What?" Boyd wasn't certain now that she even knew she what she was saying any longer.

He heard Raylan's slow approach, knew the sound of his boots on gravel, but he couldn't look away from Angela. Her eyelids were drooping, her voice coming softer and tremulous as she continued, "Jus' like Tommy, you a nightmare...to deal with...but you get...the shit...done. Say to him...just that. He know...he will..."

Raylan was standing next to him, but Boyd still couldn't look up because she was fading, so fast. "A man named Tommy Bucks killed two witnesses and a Federal Marshal in Nicaragua three weeks ago," he said, his voice hard and still so remote, as Angela died. “He put a stick of dynamite in a man’s mouth.”

Everything was quiet for just a moment, so little time, before they heard Bo moving. He was dragging himself, blood pooling up and out of his wound, toward his gun, which had fallen just over a foot away from him.

Boyd watched Raylan walk over, in a slow, larger than necessary circle, to the piece and kick it out of the way, further beyond Bo's reach. Then he stepped casually on his outstretched hand, grinding his boot heel into Bo's fingers.

"Raylan," Boyd cried, as his father yelled in pain, and he pushed himself to his feet, coming between them and shoving Raylan back. Raylan wasn't looking at him, just at Bo’s face, unyielding.

“Let’s go,” Raylan said, though there was barely any recognition in his features of who he was talking to.

Boyd sank to his knees, his eyes scanning his daddy, his heaving chest, his seeping wound, red and dark. Boyd stripped off his jacket, crumpling it into a wad of sorts and pressing it into the bullet hole. “No,” he said to Raylan. “We can’t.”

Raylan looked between them, Boyd and his daddy, like he’d never held any warmth for either of them at all. “Why not?” he asked.

Boyd knew this look, this manner. He’d seen it before in battle abroad and at home, he’d felt it before himself. Raylan was going to come down from it soon. He was. He’d come down and he’d shake his head like he’d had one too many, he’d forget he ever said such a thing, and he’d never look at Boyd that way again.

“He’s dying, Raylan,” Boyd said. “I have to try and save his life. We’re not monsters.”

That seemed to shake Raylan a bit. He blinked at Boyd and frowned, but then he gripped his weapon tighter. Boyd wondered where the other two boys were, but he didn’t ask. If they weren’t out here yet, they wouldn’t be coming.

“You can holster that,” Boyd told him. Sometimes--and he was thinking of the boys in Iraq, Devil when he’d shot that security guard--sometimes all they needed was a reminder, a little nudge.

“No, I can’t,” Raylan snapped back, like they were having a spat. He was just staring at Bo’s pain-ravaged face, so Boyd let him have it, deciding not to say anything else. Raylan would come down soon. It would be fine. 

He walked around again in that slow circle, keeping a safe distance from the dying man, and sat down at Bo’s head, a few feet away from Boyd. He settled down, Indian-style, and propped his Glock up on his knee, pointing straight at Bo, but as far as he could get it from Boyd.

Boyd let him have that too, pressing down hard on Bo’s wound. Boyd wished the man had just died. Boyd also wished that he had found that zone in which Raylan seemed to have got himself lodged, that battle clarity that divorced a man from his morals, from his feelings, and the finer points of human sense. 

Boyd remembered that feeling, though in the hazy way of a visceral dream, and he would have welcomed it today. But he hadn’t gone there, and now he couldn’t leave his father to die alone.

Then, to Boyd’s increasing dismay and horror, Bo began to speak.

“You sure got me, son,” Bo said with a strange, dark humor in his tone. “Fooled me one good. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

Boyd bit the inside of his cheek. No, of course the man couldn’t just die of a God damn gun shot wound like everybody else. “I know, but I had incentive, Daddy,” he replied, unwilling to just listen to him talk. 

“Ah, but your _incentive_ ,” Bo coughed, that triumphant smile on his face again. "He didn't think you could do it, either."

Boyd stared at his father. "What?"

"He thinks he made you different, with all your fucking around. Weaker. He thought he'd killed you with it."

Boyd whirled on Raylan. "What did you tell him?"

But Raylan just looked blankly back at Boyd, the Glock in his hand the only thing steady about him. " _What_?" he asked, his tone vague, like he was anywhere but present in that moment, like he didn’t even understand the question.

Boyd frowned. This wasn’t just adrenaline, this wasn’t just the madness of anger or fear. Something was wrong with him. "Raylan, did you--"

"He told me a hell of a lot, son," Bo laughed, wet and wheezing. "You wanna hear it?"

"Not just this minute," Boyd replied, then said, staring at Raylan, who looked more than shell-shocked now. He seemed barely conscious, though his eyes were wide open. "You gave him something else. Not just the tranqs."

Bo smiled wickedly. "Could be. Or maybe he just couldn't wait to spit it all out. He's got quite a complex there, son, maybe more than one. He sang me a pretty little song all about it. All about you two."

Boyd could have killed him. His hands itched to. He looked at Raylan, who was blinking at him like before, but now it was in a way that made Boyd think he wasn’t fully aware. Boyd thought, for a moment, he could do it. Raylan might not remember, and even if he did, the crime was so great, so horrifically invasive, Boyd might be forgiven. Raylan might even lie about it, once he knew. 

But then his thoughts caught up with reality. The doctors would know. You don’t die from gut shot so swiftly. If he strangled his father, they would see those marks. If he thrust his hand inside that open, seeping, wound, they would know that he’d done it. He would go to jail, and he’d already told Raylan he wouldn’t be doing that.

“We should kill him,” Raylan said. His voice was flat, toneless. Maybe he could follow the conversation, or maybe he was just out for blood, his base instincts let loose by all that shit in his system. Boyd still didn’t know about those boys inside the cabin.

“No,” Boyd made himself protest. If Raylan couldn’t hold himself back, Boyd would have to do it for them both. No one--except Bo, if he lived--was going to jail. “We can’t kill him. You know that, baby.”

Raylan blinked at him and he seemed to waver, his weapon hand in particular, for just a moment, before he steadied himself again, his gaze transferring back to Bo. He didn’t say anything.

Boyd gritted his teeth, pressed down harder on his father’s wound. “You think if you live, you ain’t goin’ to jail, for a long long time? You fucked him up bad, Daddy. They won’t go easy on you for this. This is... this is torture.”

“Don’t you try n’ tell _me_ about torture, Boyd,” Bo wheezed. “And I ain’t gonna make it. At least I can put my last moments to good fuckin’ use.” He lifted a hand and grabbed at Boyd’s wrist, clamping hard around the flesh and bones, stronger than he would have thought possible. “He’s a selfish little cunt, son. He’s not worthy of what you gave him, said so himself. He’s ruined you. Even if my plan,” he laughed now, bitter and something like defeated, then continued, “had worked. You’re not even close to the man you could have been. He knows that.”

Boyd stared at his father then looked at Raylan, who hadn’t moved at all and was still gazing at them both with distance, long empty space, in his eyes. Boyd didn’t care if he understood in that moment or not, he still told his boy, “I don’t want to be that man, Raylan. It wasn’t just that you couldn’t or didn’t want him, I didn’t either. It was only ever a way to get by, ‘til you came home.”

Bo laughed again, this time like something was real funny and Boyd felt his hatred roil into something not only intense, powerful, but sinking lower to profoundly disturbed. He didn't want to be anywhere near this man any longer. He didn’t want his blood all over his hands. He thought he might be sick.

“”Til he came fucking home,” he said, the words cracking from Bo’s mouth, bit out harsh and short. “I remember when this little fucker left town. It was all anybody talked about for a week. Even your grandmother knew. You know what else I remember, Boyd?”

Boyd didn’t answer, he looked at Raylan and shook his head. But Raylan was looking at Bo now, brows furrowed, like he was a puzzle that needed to be solved. “Don’t, Daddy,” Boyd tried.

“I remember you were a fucking mess. I thought it was a girl. Pretty little Ava took up with Bowman just about that time. I thought it might have been that. Not your skinny-ass miner boyfriend.”

Raylan shook his head, still frowning. “Weren’t boyfriends,” he said and Boyd looked at him sharply. Raylan just licked his lips and watched Bo.

“Daddy, please,” Boyd said.

“Oh, I know,” Bo said, ignoring him, responding to Raylan’s words, but speaking only to Boyd. “Because now, this asshole tells me, before he left you poured your little heart out to him, served it on a goddamn platter. You weren’t fucking him, but you wanted to. Boy, how you wanted to, because no son of mine would beg for something like that unless he couldn’t help himself. And this little pissant, this sad excuse for a man, said no, then looked at you with his teary eyes, and his pathetic, home-wrecked, quivering lip, until you said, ‘Fine, go ahead, Raylan, rip out my heart and I’ll thank you for the privilege. I’ll smile so big you’ll think--”

Bo cried out then, because Boyd pressed down so hard on his wound he might as well have been thrusting his fist into it. “Shut up,” he hissed.

“You looked like a ghost in those days, Boyd,” he coughed. His eyes were hard, just as dangerous as they’d always been. He knew what he was doing here and Boyd’s hands were at his wound and not across his mouth, so he just kept on talking. “Didn’t eat. Didn’t sleep. Barely talked. You looked like the devil raked you over his coals. Didn’t change, ‘til you came back from Kuwait. Then you were hot and cold, but never for anybody, only for the game, and for your fuckin’ emulex.”

“Shut _up_ ,” Boyd said, but his eyes raised fast to Raylan. He never wanted to talk about this. It was over. Done. It didn’t matter, had never mattered. Not to him. Because Raylan came home.

But Raylan was looking at him like he’d somehow been lied to. And when Boyd thought about it, maybe he had. He tried so hard, to make it seem like it was nothing. That was why he’d never been angry with Raylan for not knowing. Boyd knew his own powers. That smile had been his greatest work, his most brilliant lie.

That night, he'd been dying inside, it felt like. He may not have ever recovered. Not fully. And he’d stretched that smile so wide. After, he thought he could get through anything, could tell whatever lie struck his fancy, to anyone, he’d been so good.

Raylan was still looking at him and he was easier to read now, with his sincere confusion, his furrowed brow and concerned eyes. Boyd knew what he would say, even if the words themselves made no sense.

"Why?" he asked simply.

Boyd shifted his jaw and forced himself to answer. He knew they were done with lies now. The time for all that was over, for sure and certain. "Because you left me, Raylan,” he said, barely realizing he was yelling those words, the ones he’d always longed to say. “Even before you said goodbye, you were gone. You _left me_ here. Alone."

Bo was laughing, but Raylan didn’t seem to hear it. His eyes were on Boyd still, but there was a tremor in his hands, both of them. “I had to...” he spoke softly, trailing off without even finishing the thought.

“Yeah, I know that,” Boyd said with a sigh, “But, baby, it don’t make it hurt any less. Even now.”

Raylan’s eyes grew large at that, like he’d just been stuck with a knife to the gut. The gun, while still held cripplingly tight in his hand, dropped to the dirt by his knee, as if he’d lost all strength in his arm. His shoulders slumped and he raised his other hand to his eyes and Boyd was terrified for a moment that he would begin to weep.

“Raylan,” he said, but the boy just shook his head and Boyd fell silent. He didn’t know what he was going to say anyway. He’d never planned to talk about this. He’d never, ever wanted to.

Raylan raised his eyes to Boyd and they were raw and open, but dry as a bone and full of regret. “Boyd, I--I’m sorry. I don’t--I don’t know how I could have--but I didn’t think. I never do, I just couldn’t. But I always thought about you even when I wasn’t and I was so scared, of here and him and you--”

“Raylan, stop,” Boyd ordered, deeply frightened of the strange, disjointed manner in which Raylan was speaking, like he was incapable of ordering his own thoughts. “We don’t need to do this now. I know, baby, I know you’re sorry. I know you didn’t have a choice. We can talk about it later.”

Raylan shook his head again, stubborn as always, his brows still furrowed. “You never want to talk about it. You never said and I didn’t know--but I _hurt_ you, Boyd. I hurt you and that was the very first thing I did--all I ever fucking do--”

“That’s not true,” Boyd said with wide eyes, marvelling that this was how Raylan saw himself, staggered by this guilt and shame that ran so deep even he had never seen its extent before. “You gave me the house--and that place--Raylan, you saved my life. I didn’t even ask for that, you just gave it to me.”

“It’s a monster,” Raylan retorted with terrifying vehemence. “I just didn’t want it and I was selfish--I just wanted-- maybe you--maybe it would have been better if I’d never come back at all. If I wasn’t--”

“Raylan, I’d be in jail if you weren’t here. I might be dead. I might be so far gone nothing could reach me, so lost in all that anger and bitterness--”

“Because I _left_ \--”

“But then you came back, Raylan. It doesn’t matter anymore that you left. It still hurts, but it doesn’t fucking matter. I love you and this is where you belong.”

Raylan’s mouth, which had been left open in anticipation of speaking once again, snapped shut at Boyd’s words and he looked at him, wide-eyed and almost disturbed. He was breathing hard, and now that he thought about it, so was Boyd. But soon he found himself smiling softly at his boy’s silence. “Are you so surprised?” Boyd asked.

Raylan shook his head vehemently and he blinked, like his thoughts were miles behind his actions. “I don’t know,” he choked, looking away, down at the ground, then back to Boyd, as if lost. “I’m--just so sorry... and I--I don’t know.” His hands, his knuckles, raw and red, were pressing hard into the dirt at his knees. His body was shaking, either from the injuries or the drugs or the strain, all except his fingers around that weapon.

Boyd looked down at his own hands, felt his father’s insides quake under him, heard the dying man cough again and spit a trail of mucus and blood onto the ground at his side. Boyd felt nothing but revulsion. 

He pulled his blood-covered hands, sticky and feeling heavy, slow with the weight of it, from the seeping wound. He grasped Bo’s hands in his and placed them over the red and sodden remains of his jacket. “You can staunch the flow of your own blood,” Boyd told him. “It won’t be long now.” Bo only coughed again.

Boyd picked himself up from the ground and slowly, so carefully, approached Raylan, who was looking up at him like he’d forgotten Boyd could be in such close proximity to his person. He was almost leaning away.

“Hey,” Boyd said reassuringly, or so he hoped, and sank to his knees in front of Raylan. This time, when he reached for him, Boyd’s hands did not shake, but they left a trail of red as he drew his fingers across Raylan’s cheeks and into his hair. “I’m here, baby,” he said.

Raylan sucked in a fast, loud breath of air and he shuddered, his whole body shaking more violently than before like Boyd’s touch was too much for him and Boyd pulled him close, slow, but with a steady strength that brooked no argument. He tucked his Raylan’s head under his chin and felt hot breath coming faster than he’d like across his neck. Raylan’s skin was warm as well, too warm, and Boyd wondered again about the reopened holes in his shoulder.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” Raylan told him, voice quiet and muffled.

“I never thought you did,” Boyd answered, stroking his hair. “I’ve hurt you too, Raylan. I know I have. When you didn’t want to hear it, to put a name to us. You remember that. You were hurting that night because of me. That’s what you do when you love someone like I love you, like I know you love me. We can’t help it, because it’s so much--”

“Too much--” Raylan’s voice was close to breaking. 

“No, Raylan. Never that. Never too much to stop.” Boyd knew under any other circumstances, Raylan would never have said such a thing, admitted such doubt. He felt his chest constrict painfully at the idea that Raylan, after the events of that day, would be driven to such depths of despair. “Just,” Boyd told him, pulling him away just far enough to meet his eyes, still so wide open, his dilated pupils bottomless and somehow uncanny. “Trust me, baby. You know me.”

And Raylan smiled, and it was smooth and natural, almost like nothing was wrong, like none of it had happened. But it also seemed paper thin, given to blowing away in the wind, like it was nothing at all. “Yeah, okay, darlin’,” Raylan replied.

Then they heard the ambulance siren and Bo started shaking like Raylan had. It took Boyd far too long to realize it was from laughter, so weak and faint, it was soundless. He saw the black vehicles with tinted windows and government plates roar up the hill, through the trees and he felt Raylan pull away, move to stand.

Boyd looked up, too surprised to speak. Raylan looked very much like himself in that moment, if the lacerations to his face and the blood and bruises across his skin could be ignored. His eyes were on Bo and they were again frighteningly remote. “We should have killed him,” Raylan said and he swayed, for only half a second, but his right hand was steady.

Boyd took a slow breath and said, “Well, we didn’t.”

Bo raised his head, with significant effort it seemed, and looked at Raylan, then long at Boyd. “You’re going to hell, son,” he croaked. “They got a special place for you.”

Boyd smiled grimly and got to his feet, raising his hands in the air as Art Mullen exited his vehicle and approached them, weapon in hand. “Then, I’ll see you there, Daddy,” he replied.

“Raylan, Jesus,” Art called when he came near enough to hear, glancing quickly down at Angela and Ernesto’s bodies, then lowering his voice the closer he got to them. “Where you been, son?”

Raylan stared at him like he had no idea how to answer that, but luckily Art looked down at that moment and saw who was at their feet and exactly what he was busy doing. “Shit,” he swore and called the paramedics over.

Boyd kept very still with his hands raised, but he saw that Raylan had backed up, moving away, the more people rushed over to them. They watched as Bo was put onto a stretcher and bandages were broken out of plastic wrapping, then pressed hard over the wound. They kicked dirt into the blood on the ground and their shoes were stained with the mixture. 

Art was talking to one of them, a short woman with steely eyes and a compact efficiency of movement. He came back over to them when they began to cart Bo away. “They’re gonna try to save him, but she didn’t seem too optimistic. Something about blood pressure and shock from transfusions,” he looked at Boyd, who was glad for the man’s forthright honesty. “She said she’d be surprised if he makes it to the hospital, especially from this distance.”

Raylan shifted at that and Boyd’s eyes went to him, an intense wave of concern washing over him at the thought that Raylan could collapse at any moment. They were safe now, the danger had passed. But Raylan somehow looked fine, or could pass for fine if Boyd didn’t know any better. He shrugged and said with a strange, too jovial smile, “Well, guess we didn’t have to commit no murder today, Boyd.”

He saw Art give Raylan a funny look at that, but then shrug it off and step up to Boyd’s back, taking his raised arms down gently by each wrist. “Art,” Boyd began, intended as a warning.

“Art, what the hell are you doin’?” Raylan asked, before Boyd could continue, like he had absolutely no notion.

“My job,” the man said flippantly.

Boyd looked over at Raylan who was shaking his head like he didn’t believe what he was seeing. “Why is he in cuffs?”

Art sighed, and answered like Raylan was supposed to know, “He blew up a tractor trailer with a rocket launcher early this morning, Raylan.”

When Raylan looked for confirmation, wide-eyed and unsteady, Boyd nodded and tried to assure him, “Raylan, it’s fine.”

But Raylan wasn’t listening to him, his eyes were on Art, like his boss was the one who’d done something crazy. “He was coerced!” 

Art turned to Raylan, impatience in his tone and stance. “I know that, Raylan,” Art said. “We talked to those boys he tied up, and his close-mouthed cousin--what little we could get out of him. But it has yet to be proven We can’t just let him go when we’ve got these charges. I’m sure--” He broke off as a shudder ran through Raylan’s entire body, violent and visible. Art stiffened behind Boyd and he said tentatively, “Raylan? Are you--” breaking off when Raylan raised his gun, shaking his head in denial. Boyd wished desperately that he had thought to disarm him before the Marshals got there.

“Raylan, Jesus Christ, what the hell are _you_ doing?”

Boyd found his tongue again. “Art, I’m not certain he has any notion of what he’s doing or saying right now. My daddy shot him up with something, beat him to hell.”

“Shit,” Art swore. “We thought he was working outside the channels, lookin’ for you. We didn’t... Jesus, Raylan, sit down, son.”

But Raylan shook his head and kept his gun pointed straight at Art. No one from the rest of the contingent seemed to have seen yet what was going on. 

“He’s been here, tied to a chair mostly, goin’ on twenty-four hours. He’s been interrogated in some fashion--what else, I’m not even sure. He needs medical attention. He can’t be held responsible for this, okay?”

Art let go of Boyd’s bound hands and took a tentative step towards Raylan, despite the gun aimed at his chest. “Yeah, okay, Boyd,” he said. “What do you suggest we do about our current situation, though?”

Boyd heard Tim shout now, from behind him, a shocked and questioning, “Art? What the--”

“Stand down, everybody,” Art yelled, then said much softer, “you too, Raylan.”

Raylan shook his head again, blinking slow but frowning hard. “He can’t...” Raylan mumbled. “I won’t let...”

Boyd leaned forward, turning his head to look at Raylan straight on. “Raylan, I’m not gonna go to jail. Raylan, look at me.” Thankfully, Raylan did look. He was listening now. “You know about the rules. You’re the one says we gotta follow them all the time. Art’s not gonna let me go to jail. We’re gonna tell ‘em what happened, and I’m gonna be home, with you, by tomorrow. You keep this up, you do somethin’ stupid, I don’t know what they’re gonna do to you. Don’t make me be the one has to visit the other behind those goddamn bars, I swear to God, Raylan. Not after what I did and did not do for us today. Just lower your fucking weapon.” And when Raylan didn’t comply, Boyd shouted desperately, “Look at who you’re aimin’ at, for God’s sake.”

Raylan stared at Art again and his eyes grew wide, though he froze, every limb stiff with shock or terror. He did not put down the gun.

“Raylan,” Art said quietly, “son, I cannot imagine what you’ve gone through today, so for right now you’re gonna get a pass. But if you don’t put down your service weapon right now, Marshal, I’m going to be extremely pissed off.”

Raylan blinked at him and swayed again and Boyd finally felt a rush of relief as the tension in Raylan’s arm released and he tried to holster the damn thing, missed, then finally just let it fall to the ground. “Shit,” he murmured, sounding dazed as he pressed his left hand to his head.

Art approached him slowly and bent to retrieve the gun from the ground at Raylan’s feet, flipping on the safety and sliding it into his jacket pocket. Boyd stayed where he was, though he longed to rush forward. He’d been arrested before, he knew how it went, and he wasn’t about to press his luck with Art today.

He heard the chief ask Raylan a few questions, his name, his title, the date. Raylan said he didn’t know the last one. “Did you go to Little Sandy yesterday morning, Raylan?”

“I don’t think--” Raylan began, but Boyd interjected, “Yes, he did.”

“That was _yesterday _?” Raylan groaned and nearly fell over.__

Art had his hands on Raylan’s shoulders in a flash, but Raylan flinched away, gasping, when fingers brushed the old, reopened wounds and then again when Art tried to steady him at his chest. “Mother of God,” Art breathed, distress in his voice as he stared, finally looking hard to assess the damage. “Boyd, what did they do to him?”

Boyd remembered the blood on the floor and on that bag. He’d seen beatings like that go down before so he answered as truthfully as he could, “Bo had two boys beat him, whatever way they wanted. Then he kicked him, once or twice, hard in the chest or stomach, hard enough to move a body across the floor, and had him tied to a chair. So he’s got at least a broken rib or two, and the scattershot from the motel, all those wounds are open again. I think he’s running a fever and, when Daddy let me see him, Raylan said they gave him tranqs at first. Raylan, do you remember that?”

Raylan had his hand on Art’s shoulder, instead of the other way around, and Art’s hand was steady on Raylan’s lower back as they tried to make their way over to the cars. It was going to be slow going. He looked at Boyd and frowned. “Maybe,” he said.

“Do you remember if he said what he gave you after that?” As he asked, Art and Raylan came abreast of him then walked on past and so Boyd turned to keep his eye on them and found, though he really shouldn’t have been surprised, that a group of about ten to fifteen people, including Tim, Rachel, and several Staties Boyd was sure he’d seen before, were all staring at them.

“I forgot that was anything, Boyd,” Raylan said, like it was normal for him to be so absent-minded. “I thought... we were just talkin’. It was just talk. I wasn’t thinkin’ about it.” 

Boyd knew that was bullshit, but he didn’t have any notion of what kind of drug would bring about such a radical change in Raylan concerning topics he would usually keep so private. Raylan had told Bo things even Boyd didn’t know, after six years of intimacy. He shuddered, not wanting to think about it any longer. 

“Tim,” Art called impatiently when no one moved forward to help them. “Get over here. The paramedics all left?”

“No,” Tim visibly shook himself and strode forward. “There’s one still here. He’s inside the building tending to two suspects, both shot in the kneecaps.”

“I do remember that,” Raylan said grimly.

“Well, at least you didn’t kill them,” Boyd replied.

“Thought you might not like that.” Boyd wasn’t sure if Raylan was talking to him or to Art at that point.

“Well, get him,” Art ordered Tim, who practically sprinted to obey. “As you can see, Raylan’s in sort of a bad way right now. And Rachel,” he said, as the other Marshal looked attentive, holstering her own weapon now. “Make it look like Mr. Crowder, here, is actually under arrest, not just wandering around with his hands in cuffs. I’d really rather not be written up for this massive conflict of interest any more than I already have to, all right?”

Boyd kept walking, in pace with them, even as Rachel came around to his back and laid a impersonal hand on his forearm. She asked him politely if he wanted his rights read and he told her, no thanks, as he knew them. He turned to Raylan then and asked, as though both of them hadn’t just been talked about like they were absent from the party, “How the hell did you get your gun back, anyway?”

Raylan shrugged, as much as he could at any rate, and said, “Can’t remember.”

Art just laughed.

They let Boyd stay nearby when Raylan finally reached the paramedic’s SUV, which had been utilized instead of a second ambulance as there were already too many vehicles in his grandmother’s little holler. They sat Raylan down on the opened tailgate of the SUV and Boyd settled himself quite close, standing but leaning against the tailgate as well.

The paramedic, looking just as efficiently competent as his female counterpart from earlier, examined Raylan with a disturbed expression on his face, though he did not voice any trepidation. Instead, he asked Raylan most of the same questions Art had, then started mumbling about slowed reaction time and pupil dilation.

“I can’t give you anything for the pain right now,” he explained, “since we don’t know what you already have in your system. But I’ll take some blood and we’ll find out as soon as we can.”

Raylan nodded at him, but he looked as though he wasn’t quite following, or was unsure if he had followed properly, so Boyd scooted just a little closer and brushed his fingers, hands still bound together behind his back, against the nearer of Raylan’s wrists.

Raylan glanced at him and Boyd nodded, prompting a grateful smile from his boy.

“Now,” the paramedic continued, “The other ambulance is twenty minutes out. We can wait for it, or we can just go now with you laid down in the back of the SUV. It’s not ideal, and it won’t be great for your ribs, but you would get out of here and get treatment faster.”

Boyd looked at Art, who was also hovering nearby, though keeping an eye on all the other goings on in the holler. Raylan was frowning and hesitantly opening his mouth, like he wasn’t sure what to say. Boyd knew, up until then, most of Raylan’s decision-making had been either following or ignoring orders he’d been given. This question required a little more thought.

When Art grudgingly nodded at him, Boyd grasped again at Raylan’s wrist and said, “That sounds like a good idea, baby. We just wanna get out of here, get you some medicine, some rest. Right?”

Raylan nodded again and replied, “Yeah. Okay.” He turned then and thrust his face into the crook of Boyd’s neck, not even bothering to do anything with his arms. He just leaned there and breathed Boyd in. 

The paramedic looked between them like he hadn’t made the connection before. Boyd put a face on that dared him to say anything and the man turned away, climbing into the front of the vehicle and pulling down seats so Raylan could lay more comfortably.

Boyd wished he could raise his arms to offer some additional relief, but the cuffs rather handily prevented such a motion. Boyd looked at Art again and the man seemed to want to sputter or grumble or something, but instead his shoulders sort of deflated and he came around to Boyd’s other side, saying, “I’ll cuff you to the goddamn seat, okay? But this is only because I’ve never seen that boy in such a state. Try to remember that legally you are under arrest and we’ll try not to get into an accident, all right?”

And they got Raylan into the back of the cab without any additional fanfare.

The paramedic told him to lay on his back, to reduce stress on his ribs, but Raylan either wasn’t listening or didn’t care, because he promptly turned to his side and curled loosely around where Boyd was sitting, back straight against the driver’s seat. Boyd’s left hand was cuffed to the handlebar attached to the door, but he sunk the fingers of his right hand immediately into Raylan’s hair.

Art climbed into the passenger seat at the front, giving Boyd a look that said, “you thought I was gonna let you two out of my sight?” Boyd smiled at him tiredly. Art gave some additional instructions to the two remaining Marshals and they rolled out of the holler soon after. 

They kicked up thick, dry dust, from the tires on their way out and all Boyd could think of was his daddy’s blood, Angela’s and Ernesto’s, Raylan’s too, all ground into that dun-colored dirt, enough to make a puddle of rusted-red mud. He thought of his grandmother’s cabin, stripped of its warmth and Raylan’s blood underneath her carpet. He shuddered.

Boyd never wanted to look upon that place again.

He was certain, after a few minutes on the road, Raylan would fall asleep. He kept his eye on his boy, waiting for him to close his eyes and drop off, but he didn’t. He was just staring into space and every once in a while his fingers would twitch a little closer to Boyd, until finally Boyd just took Raylan’s hand in his and set it in his lap, rubbing the pads of his fingers soothingly across Raylan’s knuckles and fingertips.

"Boyd,” Raylan said cautiously a moment later. Art turned in the front seat at the noise, but Boyd only had eyes for Raylan.

“Yeah, baby?”

“You're wearing my belt," he stated with some confusion. 

Boyd smiled. He’d actually forgotten. "Yes, Raylan, I am." 

Art began to laugh softly and Boyd shot him a look. He know they didn’t seem like the type of couple to share clothes, and in reality, they weren’t. These were extreme circumstances. 

“Why?” Raylan asked after a moment, like he could not think of one reason. Case in point.

Boyd looked down at him and answered truthfully when he replied, "Because I thought I might have to strangle somebody and I knew this belt would hold up best under pressure." 

There was a beat of silence in which Art stopped laughing, then the paramedic at the wheel choked rather dramatically, and Raylan answered with an, “Oh," of comprehension. “It looks good on you,” he said a moment later, like it was nothing and Art started laughing again, almost to tears.

Boyd could not imagine what was so funny. 

He turned now to the window and watched the trees lining the state road speed past them, just a green blur, as he kept his free fingers working on Raylan’s clammy hands. The hospital, Boyd knew, was maybe ten minutes away now. He hadn’t been there--to Harlan County General--since his mother died. Crowders were not hospital people. If you weren’t dying, you didn’t go.

If he had his choice, he’d just bundle Raylan up--he knew how to set a cracked rib or two--and take him home. But, Boyd was in cuffs and he was damn lucky he even got to sit here in the car with Raylan after what happened that day. But knowing that didn’t stop him from longing to be back at the house, lazing away the day in bed with Raylan smiling at him, hair mussed up right by the pillow and threatening that if they didn’t fuck soon he was just going to take himself back to Lexington.

“Boyd, we’re here,” Raylan said, his voice still sounding slow, off, in that subtly frightening way. Of course Raylan needed the hospital, they still had to find out what the ever-living fuck his daddy had done to him. “You fell asleep.” Raylan stated this in the strange, matter of fact, yet confused way he’d pointed out the thing with the belt. Like he had no notion why Boyd would have fallen asleep in that moment.

“I did not,” Boyd told him. “I was thinking. My eyes were just closed.” He looked down and forced the soft smile that had crept on his face to stay right where it was, despite the fact that not looking at Raylan for a few minutes had caused him to forget what a terrible sight his boy was, how beaten he looked, how broken. 

Boyd had never been one to misplace blame. He knew this was not his fault entirely. What blame could be laid at his feet was doubled by what Raylan had done to put himself there--Boyd was carefully not thinking about the lies that boy had told him over the goddamn weekend--and tripled or more by what Bo had done to them both.

No, Boyd could not blame himself, did not feel any misguided guilt. What he felt was a profound sensation of a heady and bitter combination of disgust and anger and fear. He could not recall feeling anything so awful in his life, not in connection to looking at Raylan, not even the night he’d told his lies with a only a smile and then descended into his own private purgatory for ten years.

Raylan grinned at him and he began to bleed again where his lip was split. It was staining some of his teeth red. “You did,” Raylan insisted, teasing, and Boyd thought he might cry, but he was just blinking back tears because they’d opened the back up and the unfiltered sunlight was streaming in.  
]

 

Raylan woke with a start in a darkened hospital room, tubes stuck through his arms, a thick layer of bandages around his chest, and bed sheets tucked tight around him. He turned to the side and saw Boyd, looking at him with sleepy eyes, but a wakeful stare, maybe attempting to assess his state of mind.

They looked at each other for a long moment, until Raylan smiled and Boyd sighed, knowing he was back in his right mind.

“How much do you remember?” Boyd asked softly, running his hand across Raylan’s thigh through the blankets. 

Raylan licked his lips and spoke honestly. “Most of it, I think,” he said. “Don’t tell Art.”

Boyd nodded then looked away. “Is there anything you want to know? Anything you want to ask me?”

Raylan thought about it. He had a lot of questions, actually. He knew the memories of what had happened in the last few days were there inside his head, when he reached for details he could find them. He remembered the smell, the densely hot feeling of the bag over his head, the sharp, thudding pain behind his eyes after they’d beat him again and again. 

But there were larger facts that seemed to be swinging around in his mind, and when he tried to catch them, they slipped away from him. They were the things that happened later, things he either didn’t know or wasn’t able to grasp near the end of it all. 

“Is Bo dead?” That was the most important question, he thought.

“Yes,” Boyd replied, no grief in his voice, though his eyes seemed dark, guarded. “He didn’t make it to the hospital.”

“Did I kill those boys?” All Raylan remembered of that time was a blind, red-tinged rage. He still didn’t know how he’d got the gun.

Boyd looked at him, surprised. “No. You shot ‘em in the kneecaps, both. You don’t remember talking about that?”

Raylan thought about it, remembered his hand on Art’s shoulder, how painful it suddenly became to walk even that little distance, how Art had laughed at him when he said he didn’t know how he’d got the gun back. “Yeah, now I do.” He rubbed at his forehead. “Sorry,” Raylan murmured. “It’s kind of a jumble.”

“I’m surprised you remember any of it,” Boyd replied. “The doctors said you wouldn’t.”

Raylan smiled and tapped the side of his head lightly, keeping his eyes steady on Boyd. “Steel trap,” he said and Boyd laughed, low and welcome. 

Raylan wanted to pull him close, but he sensed Boyd was holding himself back for some reason. He thought back to that morning, if that was the appropriate amount of time, and remembered... he’d been upset, not exactly at Boyd, at something he’d done, but with Boyd, or about him. He’d said some things, to Bo, to Boyd, that he hadn’t meant to, raw, painful things, even he had barely realized were lurking inside him.

“What did he give me?” Raylan asked.

Boyd looked uncomfortable now, prompting Raylan to lean forward, wincing as he did through the ache in his muscles and bones, to place his hand, dragging those creepy tubes along with it, on Boyd’s cheek. He drew the pad of his thumb across Boyd’s high cheekbone. He wondered when Boyd had last eaten, because the hollows in his face looked more pronounced than usual and there were dark circles under his eyes. 

Boyd met his eyes again. He smiled ruefully. “They said I might not want to tell you. But they really don’t know you very well.”

Raylan frowned. “What was it?”

“Well, you were right. First it was tranqs. Later, as far as they can tell, alternating some kind of barbiturate and methamphetamine. It’s supposed to work like a sort of truth serum. That’s what the boy said, the one that shot you up. His uncle was a clinic doctor, learned about it from him, but the kid got caught up in dealing,” Boyd just kept talking and Raylan knew it was because he was unsure, as close to nervous as Boyd ever got. He didn’t get that way much, but when he did, that’s when he would ramble.

When Raylan opened his mouth, however, Boyd closed his tight, like he knew exactly what he’d been doing. “Your daddy shot me up with meth?” Raylan asked slowly.

Boyd grimaced. “Among other things.”

“But,” Raylan shook his head, completely at a loss. “Boyd, yesterday--or whenever it was--I’ve never felt so terrible in all my goddamn life. I _remember_ that. Ain’t that shit supposed to get you, you know, high? Euphoric?”

Boyd tilted his head, in acknowledgement or something, and replied, “Well, yes, but in the kind of low dose they gave you, and with that other shit, all it really ended up doing--all they really wanted it to do--was get you to talk.”

As soon as the word came out of Boyd’s mouth the things around Raylan, the bed, the room, the air, fell away fast, swallowed up in darkness and all he could think, all he remembered was everything he told--he told Bo _everything_ and then there were hands at his face and he went stiff and everything was painful and he tried to push them away. 

But Boyd was speaking to him softly, telling him, “I know, baby, it’s okay. It’s all right, Raylan. He took it all with him, he took it to the fucking Devil--” and Raylan lunged forward then, gasping at the sudden movement, but clung fast and hard to Boyd regardless. He forced their lips together, pressing hard, fiercely, because all he needed to know, needed to be certain of, was that Boyd still loved him--

“My God, Raylan,” Boyd murmured, but with a steely fervor, pulling away, “we gotta talk about some of your shit, eventually, okay?” When Raylan looked at him blankly, unaware that he’d even been speaking aloud, Boyd shook his head, almost indulgently, “Of course, I still love you, baby. I loved you first and last, I love you despite myself _and_ despite yourself, because I don’t know how to do anything else, all right? Now, is there anything else you want to know?”

Boyd hadn’t yet taken his hands from Raylan’s face and he leaned forward and pressed a long kiss to his forehead as Raylan tried to slow down his breathing, his heart rate. His hands were shaking, and he tried to still them. Of course, Boyd still loved him. There was no way anything Bo had done, or Raylan had said--at least that he remembered--could change that.

Raylan smiled, or tried to, in spite of his aches and pains, of the throbbing of his head, and the thudding of his heart, and asked shakily, “How long was I out?” 

Boyd answered without pulling away, his lips brushing Raylan’s furrowed brow. “You were with D--at the cabin almost a full day. I saw you in the late morning and didn’t come back ‘til just before dawn. We got you here, to the hospital, around ten. Right now, it’s nearly nine o’clock in the evening.”

“You must be tired,” Raylan said.

Boyd sighed, breath coming slow across his skin, like a warm breeze. “I slept a little while you did.”

“Did you eat?”

He laughed now. “Tim came in with fried chicken a few hours ago. Stop worrying about me.”

“I will when you no longer look like death warmed over, darlin’,” Raylan replied. He raised his hands to Boyd’s face, though his arms were tired and sore and those tubes pulled at his skin, so that they mirrored each other.

“Pot and kettle, baby,” Boyd murmured and Raylan supposed he was right.

He squirmed, his muscles straining too hard, and Boyd moved off him, sitting back down in the chair he had pulled up close to the bed. Raylan laid back and let out a deep sigh.

“Push your button, Raylan,” Boyd told him, indicating the red circle on the remote stuck to his bed. “For the pain meds.”

Raylan was familiar with the concept and he was aching, from deep in his bones to the surface of his skin. But he shook his head. “I need,” he said slowly, “to think about things.”

Boyd’s eyes widened a little and he looked away. “I’m not sure that you do, baby. Not today.”

And Raylan thought, that’s what got him here, Boyd too. That’s all they ever did. Avoid. Stop thinking, stop talking. It got them through the beginning, when things were fragile and they didn’t know what the hell they were doing, but it nearly cost them everything in the long run, the happy ending Raylan realized now they might actually be able to have.

He was done with lying to himself, at least about Boyd. All that got him was beat to hell and shot up with meth, pointing guns at the people he cared about most--and goddamnit he was never going to tell Art he remembered doing that.

He knew this whole thing could be a catalyst for change. Without realizing, he’d used his Arlo’s death, the ownership of the house, as a similar kind of starting point. He didn’t see any reason he couldn’t use being kidnapped and tortured in the very same way.

It was sort of poetic, taking these dark turns, these shadowy paths in his life to bring about something brighter, something new and good for him and Boyd.

Raylan blinked, thinking there must have been some remnants of whatever kind of pain-killers or the tranqs or the fucking meth left in him, for his mind to wander so far off its usual course. 

He remembered Boyd suddenly in the yard in front of that cabin, shouting at him to get down. He’d been so close to pulling the trigger on Bo, the only thought in his head centered directly on hurt and pain and murder. It hadn’t even been about Boyd in that moment, all it was to Raylan, all it seemed then that it had ever been was vicious, ice-cold revenge for the pain that had been dealt to him. And then Boyd had called him back, again and again, telling him things he knew, but couldn’t understand then, that he couldn’t kill a man in cold blood, couldn’t take that kind of revenge, and not die a little himself.

Boyd knew that about him, knew that he couldn’t--no, shouldn’t do it, and stopped him. Not because Boyd didn’t want his daddy dead, Raylan remembered seeing his boy’s own anger and hatred, fear and disgust with what had happened, but because he was willing to make Raylan’s choice for him, when he wasn’t able.

And Raylan had thought Boyd wasn’t strong enough. He took a quick breath, a sharp hiss of realization and Boyd stirred, taking his hand. “Just push the button, baby,” Boyd crooned. “We can--”

“Bo told you what I thought,” Raylan said, before he lost his nerve, looking at him intently. Boyd’s expression darkened and then he wouldn’t meet Raylan’s eyes. “I remember that.” Raylan hadn’t been able to answer when Boyd asked him what he told Bo. Raylan didn’t understand at the time, because nothing had made any sense, but he remembered now the words Bo had said. There was no question.

“He did,” Boyd agreed quietly.

There was a low beeping sound between them, some machine that was monitoring him. Raylan couldn’t decide if the tension in the room was created by it or just heightened.

“I’m sorry,” he spat out his apology too quickly, like it was going to burn his tongue the longer he held it in. There was no way he could swallow it long enough to wait until he was stronger, or until they were home. “I was wrong, Boyd. I--”

“You didn’t come back here to save anybody,” Boyd interrupted him, finally lifting his eyes to Raylan’s face.

“I didn’t,” Raylan denied, feeling stricken. He’d almost forgotten he’d said that.

Boyd really did look exhausted now. Raylan wanted to touch him, but he found he couldn’t move under the scrutiny of his gaze. “But that’s what you thought you had to do,” Boyd told him.

Raylan didn’t bother denying it. “I was _wrong_.”

“I fucking know you were, Raylan,” Boyd replied, not any louder, but a hell of a lot more intensely. “You didn’t listen and you took on all that danger--danger meant for me--on to yourself. And all I had, Raylan, all I had left was this _fear_. Fear of what he was doing to you, because of me, and fear that he was right, that _you_ were right too, that I couldn’t--or I wasn’t--”

“Boyd.” Raylan couldn’t listen anymore. “I’m sorry.”

“I know you are.” He sounded tired again. “I’m not surprised, Raylan. I damn well shouldn’t be, because you’re you and you’re a fucking asshole half the time, but--”

“Boyd--”

He put his hands on Raylan, both of them, sliding up his thighs to his hands in his lap and Raylan fell silent under the calm intensity of his gaze. 

Raylan was sorry. He’d been sorry even as he’d been doing it, lying to put himself in front of a bullet they both knew was for Boyd. Boyd had said they’d do it together, and Raylan had heard him, but he couldn’t stop himself, unable to get the image of his broken boy in that motel room, half-mad from fear of loss and the threat of his daddy, out of his head. Raylan couldn’t ever see him there again. He couldn’t. So he underestimated him and he lied and he’d nearly got himself killed.

Boyd lifted a hand, taking Raylan’s chin between his fingers, making him look him right in the eyes. They weren’t angry, Raylan could see that. They were tired and Raylan was so so sorry.

“Just don’t do it again, God damn it.”

“I won’t,” Raylan breathed.

“You disagree with me, you think I’m wrong or full of shit or whatever you think, you tell me, son. I do not need to be watched over by your better angels, however sacrificial they are feeling at any given moment, you got me?”

“Yes,” Raylan said desperately. “I promise, Boyd.” He heaved a sigh then and closed his eyes, opening them as he grasped at Boyd’s hand. “You know me, darlin’.”

Boyd smirked at him, slightly bitter but somehow still beautiful. “I do, baby,” he said, his mouth turning up into a small, but real, smile. “You’re such an asshole.”

He put his hand over Raylan’s on the remote for the meds, sliding their thumbs across the cold plastic to the indent of the big red button. They pushed it down together.

Raylan felt like he could sleep for weeks.


	6. Epilogue: Take Care of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the events at the motel and cabin months behind them, Boyd and Raylan tie up some loose ends and take a quick look towards the future.

Raylan's eyes widened as Boyd stepped into the Marshals’ office in the late afternoon on a Friday. "You look good," he said, looking over Boyd's tucked in dress shirt, buttoned up high like he preferred these days, and a neatly pressed, though slim fitting pair of dockers, and Boyd smiled. He’d dressed with care today. Ava had noticed too when they were on the drive up together, carpooling as she had some legal things to take care of that afternoon. "We're not goin' anywhere that fancy," Raylan told him.

He was still in tactical gear, his sleeves rolled up and the flak vest he was wearing only half-unbuckled from his chest. His hat was on the desk next to him. The team must have just got back from some incident or other. Boyd was sure he’d only hear a fraction of the details later. Everyone else in the office was running around, probably trying to get things filed and put away fast so they could leave on time. Of the people he knew, he only saw Rachel by her desk, Art was in his office presumably, and Tim was sight unseen.

Boyd crossed his arms over his chest at Raylan’s look of surprise. "Well, someone didn't tell me anything at all about where we were goin’. For all I know, we're off to a lawyer's office again and then home."

Raylan grimaced and Boyd frowned at him. He’d been so mad that night, shortly after Raylan had gone back to full-time hours from his recovery. Raylan said he had a surprise for him in Lexington, but all it had been was the signing of Raylan’s new will, in which he’d left Boyd the house and all his damn money too.

Boyd had signed the papers with an angry flourish and stalked out of the office, Raylan trailing after him, not exactly bewildered, but definitely nonplussed. He’d turned to his boy then and said, hard and unyielding, “Raylan, you are never again to call anything having to do with the eventuality of your timely or, God forbid, untimely, death a fucking surprise, okay? Christ Almighty, you better warn me next time.”

“That wasn’t the whole deal,” Raylan said defensively, recognition dawning a little late regarding why Boyd would be upset by the whole affair. “I’m gonna take you to dinner, too.” 

“Not now, you ain’t,” Boyd had returned, still pissed as hell, and they’d driven all the way back to Harlan in silence.

“I said I was sorry about that,” Raylan grumbled, tossing his hat on his desk. “And anyway, we aren’t going to a lawyer, okay?”

Boyd smiled, stepping closer to him, setting a hand on the chaos that was Raylan’s desk right next to his hat. Raylan had learned his lesson on that one. “I know, baby,” he said.

“I gotta go put this shit away,” Raylan told him, glancing around and stepping back, then indicating the flak vest he still had on. “Gimme a minute, all right?”

Boyd shrugged. “Sure.” 

He looked around the bustling office and saw how Raylan’s coworkers, the ones he couldn’t put any name to, looked at him curiously, just once or twice, then went back to whatever it was they’d been busy doing. Boyd shook his head, wondering how many people Raylan had talked to specifically about him and how many only knew their fraught story via rumor, and leaned himself against the desk, deciding to meet everyone’s eyes unflinchingly.

A few minutes after Raylan walked away, Art exited his office, giving Boyd a big smile when he noticed him. “Good to see you, son,” the chief said and sauntered right on over.

“Same here,” Boyd replied and extended his hand, standing up a little straighter. “I was just waiting on Raylan.”

"He remember yet how he got that gun back?" Art asked with a playful smile as he took Boyd's hand warmly. Somehow able to call back to the only half-amusing thing about the last time they’d seen each other.

Boyd shook his head. "I swear, Art, he ever does, you'll be the first person I call."

“Well, I thank you for that, Boyd, because I am real curious.”

Boyd leaned back casually on the desk and smiled, feeling like he might as well try to keep his boy’s pride stuck somewhere in the conversation. “Raylan would tell you he’s just that good.”

“Well, I don’t doubt it some of the time, but don’t let him know I said that,” Art laughed and clapped him a little on the shoulder.

Boyd grinned. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Art glanced around the room like a mother hen, keeping her chicks all in a row, then looked back at Boyd. “Well, I gotta get home to the old lady,” he said warmly. “You two have a nice time.”

“Will do, Art,” Boyd replied, then added, “He tell you where we’re goin’?”

“I heard it was a surprise.”

“He knows I hate those, lately,” Boyd grumbled.

Art laughed as he took a few steps backwards towards the door. “His secret’s safe with me, “ the man said, winking. “He made sure to run the plan past some people. It sounds all right, not like last time.”

Boyd found it ridiculously amusing that Raylan was so unsteady about arranging a date after the lawyer thing that he actually asked other people about it, and confessed to being an asshole at the same time. He hid his smile behind his hand and waved Art off. “Have a good one,” Boyd called. “I’m gonna go see what’s keeping him.”

When Boyd entered the locker room he came face to face with Raylan, who had apparently been on his way out, his hair wet and his clothes changed. 

“There’s a shower in here?” Boyd asked stupidly.

Raylan, recovering from obvious surprise at almost running into him, gestured vaguely toward the back. “Yeah,” he replied. “Sorry, I just wanted to rinse off before we went.”

Boyd considered him for a moment, still damp, hair nearly dripping, and made a quick decision. He stepped forward suddenly and snagged Raylan around the waist, reveling just a little in no longer having to be careful of his ribs, and pressing him up against the wall just next to the door.

Raylan let out a little “oof” of surprise and then said, with a warning in his tone that Boyd did not care to heed, “Boyd--”

“You know what we never got to indulge in when we were nineteen, Raylan?” he asked softly, pressing close. He smelled good, clean, and of an unfamiliar soap.

“I can think of a lot of things,” Raylan said with suppressed laughter in his voice, as he trailed his lips across Boyd’s jaw, slid his hands down to Boyd’s waist.

“Workplace shenanigans,” Boyd murmured and Raylan huffed amusement into his ear.

“That would have gone over real well,” he replied then pulled back with a smile, raising a hand to Boyd’s shoulder as he tried to press forward again for a kiss. “Tim’s right over there,” he said.

“Shit. Really?” Boyd said, turning to crane his neck enough to see the sniper’s hands putting something away in a locker.

“Don’t mind me,” Tim called in that dry, not quite amused tone. “I ain’t here.”

Boyd laughed, leaning in and pressing his lips to the side of Raylan’s mouth. He said, in a low voice, “What he said.”

But Raylan slipped away and caught Boyd’s hand in his as he made for the door. “Come on,” he said. “We should be there soon.”

“Good to see you, Boyd,” Tim said, poking his head around the corner.

“Likewise, Tim,” Boyd called as Raylan pulled him through the door.

Raylan scooped his hat off his desk, interestingly not letting go of Boyd’s hand, and they left the office a moment later, hopefully leaving wild speculation in their wake.

 

Raylan drove Boyd almost straight back south towards London to a sprawling basement bar, the kind of dark, tucked away place that you used to have to hear of by word of mouth alone. He’d found the address through a google search during his lunch break a few days ago, but he’d heard about the place because of Boyd.

The lighting was dim and the wait service seemed slow, so Raylan got them two whiskeys at the bar before they sat down at a table a little to the left and farther back from the small stage down front. On the table there were a few xeroxed flyers for a show schedule. 

Raylan watched Boyd pick a flyer up and read the name of the band playing that night. “You’re a fan of these guys, right?” he asked uncertainly.

Boyd smiled at him. It was small, but in it there seemed to be a promise to grow. “I like them more than some others,” Boyd replied. 

Raylan should have known better than to ask Boyd Crowder if he was a fan of anything in particular, except maybe blowing shit up, but he smiled right back and explained, “I remembered your radio said these guys were playing a show ‘round here.”

Boyd raised his brows. “You were listening?”

“I always listen,” he replied, then tilted his head at Boyd. “You think I don’t like it?”

“You always turn it off.”

Raylan grimaced. “It’s weird, makin’ time when there’s music on. And sometimes they break in and ask you for money. You don’t think that’s weird?”

Boyd shrugged like he never thought about it before, then he made a face, as if he still couldn’t believe what Raylan was telling him. “You never said you liked it though.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t. It’s,” he tried to get a handle on the right way to put it. “It’s kind of like home. I mean, you don’t always say out loud, ‘Man, am I glad I came home tonight,’ you’re just happy to be there. Don’t need to say anything, right?”

Boyd was grinning at him and Raylan resisted the urge to look away in embarrassment. “You’re right, Raylan,” he said and took his hand. “Though you should stop making that face, looks like you can barely tolerate it. It leads people to assume things about you that might not be true.”

“Oh, you mean the one that also looks like I’m trying to power through all the pain in my ribs all the time?” 

Boyd rolled his eyes. “You made that face for a long time before you were laid up in bed for those months, baby. Don’t lie.”

Raylan raised his hands in mock surrender. “Maybe that’s just what my face looks like when we’re not,” and he paused, leaning forward suggestively, hands still in the air, “you know.” When Boyd just laughed at him and shook his head, taking another long sip from his drink, Raylan asked, “What else have you assumed I don’t like based on the look on my face?”

Boyd grinned again just as the band struck up to play. “I guess we’ll have to wait and see.”

They stopped talking after that because the band climbed on stage and started to play. Boyd grinned into his drink the whole time.

 

During the break between the first and second set, after they got some wings, fries and two more drinks placed in front of them, Raylan leaned forward, close enough that Boyd would hear him if he talked low, and said, "You know, I used to dream about you in the desert, after Johnny told me you were in Kuwait."

Boyd’s eyes widened and he smiled then licked his lips. “Really?” he said softly.

“Yeah,” Raylan told him. “I used to see you, out in the heat, in the sand, and I would think in my dream, ‘That’s not his place. Where are the hills? Where is the green?’ and usually, that’s when I would wake up.”

“Usually?” Boyd asked, his eyes glued to Raylan’s. The din of the bar seemed low behind his voice, though Raylan was sure he hadn’t raised its volume. 

“Usually,” Raylan went on. “I’d wake up, alone for the most part, and roll over, tell myself it was nothing. Or I’d fix a drink and make myself forget about it. But one time, I was there too, like usually I was watching you, but I wasn’t there, you know? But once, just the last time, I dreamed I was there too, in my hat and my jacket, badge and gun and everything, and you kind of looked at me, first like you didn’t know what I was doing there, then like you wanted to kiss me, but you didn’t speak or anything and you didn’t move, but I... pulled on you fast, like I do, and I shot you.”

Boyd’s reaction was a mess of confusion and concern he opened his mouth, but obviously had no idea what to say.

“I’m not telling you this out of some kind of hold over guilt, or anything, darlin’. I just--wanted to tell you,” he said, then finished his drink. “I bought the plane ticket back to Kentucky for Arlo’s funeral the next morning. I’d been thinking before that, I might not go.”

Now Boyd really looked disturbed, but Raylan didn’t let him speak just yet, continuing on, but not looking away as he said, "I used to dream about that last day in the mine, too. Only it wasn't the rumbling I heard, or the fear of death I'd feel, like you’d think. It wasn’t no nightmare. It was you. Just you. The feel of your hands on mine, and when you said it would be okay. I always dreamed of that and I never wanted to wake up in the morning after those nights, to find you weren't there no more."

Boyd’s eyes were big and he was sitting very still, then he blinked, like waking up from a dream himself and asked, "Why didn't you tell me this before?"

“Before, when I was having them all the time, I’d almost always forget about it, or tell myself it wasn’t anything real. I thought if I ignored it, it would go away. But it never did. I always dream about that day when I’m missing you. Even in Lexington.”

“Shit, Raylan,” Boyd breathed. “But you still didn’t answer my question.”

Raylan shrugged then answered, “Never felt like a good time. Never thought it was anything important. I don’t know. This whole thing, though, gettin’ hurt, being at home, in bed all the time--”

“Couch half the time,” Boyd interrupted, smiling.

Raylan shook his head, fighting his own smile. “I had more time to think about all that shit. I don’t know, Boyd, I just wanted to tell you now.”

“Okay, baby,” Boyd said. Then he tilted his head again, like he had about the bluegrass and Raylan knew he was reading him, he was onto him. “Raylan,” Boyd said with that old warning they used to use a lot more, the one that signalled things they might not want to talk about. Raylan just looked at him and waited. “You didn’t tell me this only to get it off your chest,” he went on carefully, “You got quid pro quo on your mind, I think. You want to ask me something?”

“No,” Raylan protested immediately, then started to backpedal. “Well, shit, Boyd, no, I don’t want to force you to tell me anything, Jesus. I just, yeah, I wanted to ask you--”

“Ask me what?” Boyd’s eyes were getting hard around the edges and Raylan realized he must have put it together. He shouldn’t be surprised, though. It was the last thing they hadn’t talked about, out of everything that came out that day.

So he just flat out asked his question. "Why did you smile like that when I left?"

Boyd was working his jaw, a habit Raylan knew he’d picked up from him. He wasn’t looking at Raylan when he said, "I didn't--I didn't know what else to do, Raylan. If I’d tried to stop you-- baby, Harlan... staying was going to kill you. I had to let you go." 

There was too much guilt in Boyd’s tone, too much regret. He’d get to that soon, but first, Raylan wanted everything to be clear. "You could have come with me," he said and left the question of why unspoken. 

"Honestly," Boyd replied, a pained look on his face, "that thought never even crossed my mind. And... you never offered."

Raylan opened his mouth, then shut it again. He hadn’t. The thought hadn’t crossed his mind either, at the time, though it was something he thought about quite a bit later. He remembered telling Bo, he had no idea how different things could have been. There was no way to make those choices again.

“Would you really want things to be different?” Boyd asked uncertainly.

Raylan met his eyes and answered honestly. “No, darlin’.” 

Even the way things went with Bo, Raylan had a hard time now trying to figure how they could have been resolved better, besides those two Cubans dying, and Bo in the ground instead of jail for life. At least neither of them had been killed, or seriously injured, or gone to prison. He considered them incredibly lucky.

“I wouldn’t change a thing. We belong right here,” he said and Boyd smiled.

“Then, why are we talking about this?” There was still too much uncertainty in his gaze, like he thought Raylan was upset about it.

“Because we never did. You were always the one pushing, Boyd. I never thought, not ‘til after that day, that there was something I needed to push back on.” Raylan thought about it for a minute, then continued. “No, that’s not right. I was starting to get it. You always changed the subject, but I was so used to--”

“I’m sorry, Raylan,” Boyd said, and it sounded like he wanted to change the subject even now.

“I’m not asking for an apology, Boyd. You don’t have anything to feel sorry or guilty about. As far as I’m concerned, I’m just as much to blame. I just want to... to understand... what it was like for you.”

Boyd raised his eyes to Raylan’s and he sort of smiled, like he was glad Raylan was asking, but it quickly disappeared because in the next moment as he spoke. “That smile,” he said. “It tore out my heart, Raylan.”

They didn’t say anything else because just as Boyd finished speaking, the band started right back up.

 

Boyd had two more before the show ended, but Raylan cut himself off early, knowing he had to get them both home. He put his hand on Boyd’s lower back as they walked out, steering him as his step wavered just a little, and he felt his boy stiffen for a moment, then relax. They usually didn’t touch each other in public like that, where people could see and assholes could judge or start trouble. 

But Raylan didn’t give a shit right then. Boyd still thought they were fighting, or he was just acting like they were out of sheer bullheadedness. And everyone thought he was the stubborn one.

They didn’t speak as they got into the car and Raylan didn’t want to push. So he drove towards home and thought about torn out hearts and hard, dark eyes and all the things Bo said that day.

Hot and cold, but only for the game--and the emulex. That’s what Bo had said. Raylan remembered, too, when he came back for the funeral, Boyd had been different, subtly so and he thought of that shit they’d got up to the night Ava stayed over the first time. He wondered how much more it had been without Raylan there, with just the boys, or Bo, with everything Boyd had done that he couldn’t talk about.

That darkness had always been in Boyd, Raylan knew that and loved it, though he’d misunderstood exactly what had happened to it over the years. He’d thought it was gone, brought back every once in a while by stress, or anger. 

He should have known better. Boyd always had such control. He knew exactly what he was doing. He knew how to bury shit just like Raylan did, and how to dig it back up again. Everyone learned that in Harlan, even if you didn’t go down in the mine. Raylan had let himself forget that after the motel, but he wouldn’t ever again, not now.

“Will you talk to me?” Raylan finally asked, eyes still on the road, tired of the churning of his own thoughts.

“I thought,” Boyd said, as though he just wanted to start talking instead of responding directly to Raylan’s question, “after that smile, I could make anyone believe anything. In the army, no one could tell, that I was any different, that I was in love with a boy who’d left me behind. I was young enough to think that was my doing, that I was putting on that front, ‘stead of people just minding their own business, not judging anybody else. I wasn’t used to that. I thought everywhere was like Harlan, that they’d see my... aberration, if I wasn’t careful.”

“But they didn’t,” Raylan said when Boyd stopped talking. He felt a creeping sense of guilt in the back of his mind at Boyd’s words. 

He’d had to deal with something, on his own, that Raylan had never allowed himself to even entertain when he wasn’t with Boyd. He’d never had the sense of confusion, of isolation, that Boyd must have felt, because he’d never thought of himself as any different than anybody else. He hadn’t been in love with Boyd, or hadn’t realized he was, until so much later.

But he pushed it away, that feeling that he’d done Boyd some kind of wrong by not sharing his every experience. He wasn’t going to pile guilt on top of blame on top of guilt anymore. That’s not was this was about.

“No, because I wouldn’t let them,” Boyd replied, and he was talking just a little faster than usual, like his lips were flying a split second earlier than his vocal cords. Raylan knew he would never had said so much if he weren’t just a little drunk. “I pulled myself back, I wouldn’t let anything touch me. I knew people would see that and they’d think, ‘That boy doesn’t love anybody or anything,’ and they’d never know about you and me. That’s the way I wanted it. It was my way of forgetting, I suppose. I think that’s why they approached me, the boys from the Commandos, and why all those others flocked to us after. I always lied about what my beliefs were, why I did what I did, but I think they saw the truth of my indifference, if not my hatred. I made myself that way, because it was easier.”

Raylan didn’t know what to say. The road in front of them stretched out just to his headlights and then faded fast to such a pitch black, it was like they were riding right into the darkness Boyd had let out and then locked away just for him. It felt enormous, too much for words or comfort.

He looked over at Boyd who was staring ahead just the same, his arm was propped up against the door, just at the bottom of the window, and his fingers were braced at his forehead. He didn’t look like he wanted Raylan to say anything, so Raylan didn’t. He just kept driving.

“I always tried,” Boyd said softly, a minute or two later. “Not to be like that for you. You wanted me--no, needed me, I think, the way I was. So, I came back for you. The way you did for me.”

“Took me a lot longer,” Raylan murmured, almost to himself, and Boyd looked at him hard.

His expression was easier to read when he was buzzed and Raylan realized Boyd thought that statement was full of shit. “You think it was an overnight process, Raylan?” he asked. “Maybe it seemed that way to you, coming in and out the way you did. But it took me a while, not just to pull myself away from those boys, but to--to be able to fall asleep without drinkin’ three fingers or more of somethin’--I couldn’t do that for years after Kuwait, after the Commandos--”

“I still can’t do that sometimes, Boyd,” Raylan put in, but Boyd shook his head, like he was missing the point.

“My hands would shake sometimes, when I answered the door--you never saw them do it, ‘cause you’d just walk right in, and I always knew it was you from how you walk--but I near pulled the trigger on Helen once, bless that woman, she just shoved me inside and set a jar of shine and a pack of cigarettes in front of me.”

Raylan’s eyebrows shot up. “I didn’t fucking smoke them, baby,” Boyd said impatiently, then went on, “Maybe I should have told you--though I have no notion what you could have done about it, and I wanted to _stay_ , Raylan-- but living there at first... It took me pulling the plumbing out of the bathroom and the cabinets and floors out of that kitchen to get all the ghosts out of that house, even for me. And I never did get my escape plan out from under your floorboards until I needed the money to buy that rocket launcher off Bill.”

Raylan glanced at him, saw he was slumped in the seat, looking a little worse for wear after all that talking. “Bill who?” he teased. 

They’d had this discussion before. He knew Boyd wasn’t going to give up his supplier, and Raylan had a pretty good idea who it was anyway. The Marshals had no beef with him, and ATF never asked. So much for inter-departmental cooperation.

Boyd put his hands to his face, spoke to his palms, “Screw you, Raylan. You wanted to know, and now you’re laughing at me.”

“I am not,” Raylan said, serious now, and caught Boyd’s eye. He was just trying to lighten things up. He didn’t want them to argue about any of this, he just wanted to know. He felt like he’d spend entirely too much time in the past six years not thinking about what the hell was going on with Boyd. He wanted that to change and he told Boyd so, all of it.

Boyd was staring at him, a vaguely disturbed look on his face. “I don’t want you to be worrying about me all the time--”

Raylan shook his head, switching his gaze between the dark road and Boyd’s darkened face. “I don’t want to worry, either, darlin’. I want to take care of you, like you do for me. You always know, Boyd, and I love that, but I should know for you, what you think, what you want and need. Sorry, I just ain’t smart enough to figure it out like you do, so you gotta tell me, all right?”

Boyd looked for a moment like he wanted to say no, like he wanted to open the door while they were speeding down the road and throw himself from the car. Then, his expression cleared and he was smiling softly at Raylan, or he seemed to be in the shadows of the passenger seat. Raylan didn’t think he should take his eyes off the unfamiliar roads long enough to be sure.

“Maybe,” Boyd said and he didn’t sound uncertain, just somehow hesitant. “Maybe, Raylan, you could tell me too, from time to time. ‘Cause, I’m not always... sometimes, I get things wrong, you know?” 

Raylan grinned. “Like the bluegrass?”

“Yeah, baby,” Boyd said with a sigh in his voice. “Like the bluegrass.”

 

They didn’t speak much for the rest of the drive. It was another forty-five minutes on the road before they reached the outskirts of Harlan, and they were coming from the opposite direction of home, so they had to drive through the town proper to get back to the house. 

Boyd had his head resting on the window, cradled on his elbow, but he stirred as they drove through the sleepy main drag of the town.

“Hey, Raylan,” Boyd said with a smile as he stretched, looking out the window as the shops and houses passed by, “let’s go get ice cream.”

It was one of the first warm evenings of that spring, warmer than usual too, more like early summer to Raylan, who was usually always up for ice cream. But he found himself hesitating, something was tightening up in his chest in almost a nervous way. “You said you didn’t want dessert back at the bar,” he replied.

“I changed my mind,” Boyd said easily, his eyes still out the side of the car. “There’s the Dairy Queen, baby. Come on. I know you want some.” He turned to Raylan, meeting his eyes as he glanced away from the road. “Raylan,” he said softly, nothing but confidence and reassurance in his voice. “It will be fine. Trust me.”

Raylan made the turn into the busy parking lot. It was late, maybe ten or fifteen minutes before their closing time, but the place was still busy. Harlan people never did care too much about keeping normal hours, and it was a particularly nice night. 

Raylan slowed down to a crawl, waiting for kids to run across the parking lot, tired parents to come trailing after them, glancing apologetically towards the car. He saw one man note who was driving, then who was in the passenger seat, and frown. He thought maybe it was somebody Boyd knew from the mine.

“He’s a foreman, Raylan,” Boyd said quietly. “He ain’t gonna start nothing.”

“What about anybody else here?” Raylan asked.

“Not with the kids around. It’ll be fine, baby. What are you gonna get?”

Raylan smirked. “I haven’t decided yet. You gonna get what you always get?”

Boyd grinned at Raylan, a little more wickedly than usual, and said, “Maybe,” before he pulled the handle on the door of the car, opening it and slipping out like a fucking maniac before Raylan had come to a complete stop in the parking space.

“Jesus, Boyd--” Raylan started but broke off because it’s not like he could hear him from outside the damn vehicle. He threw the car into park and climbed out, chasing after Boyd who was crossing the parking lot. He muttered to no one that he knew Boyd couldn’t get anything until he got to the window, that the boy didn’t have any cash on him anyway.

Boyd was smiling big at the girl behind the counter when Raylan got there. Boyd nudged Raylan on the arm, like he didn’t already have his complete attention and said, motioning to the girl, “Raylan, this is Lacey. We were having a real nice chat while you were on your way over here.”

Raylan looked at the girl, whose mouth was twisted up trying to fight a smile of some kind of other as she looked between them. She was a skinny thing who unfortunately hadn't found a good way to cut or style her long frizzy hair, as it was bundled tight underneath her DQ hat but still flying loose and sticking out in all directions. “Hi,” Raylan said and touched his hat, going for broke.

Lacey flushed not quite prettily and Boyd broke in, still smiling, “Raylan, did you know Lacey, who is a junior, is in the last class that’s gonna graduate from Evarts High School, now that they’re building that big county school out in Baxter?”

“That so?” Raylan asked her. “I bet you’re sad you don’t get to walk those shiny new halls when they open up. Evarts was a shithole way back when we went there.” He glanced behind them to see if they were holding anybody up, but it looked as though if there was a line, those people were being helped pretty fast by the other windows.

Lacey shrugged, looking down. “I dunno,” she said softly. “I think I’ll miss it after. They’re gonna tear the whole place down, I heard. Can’t never go back, then, can you?”

Boyd leaned forward, but he put his hand in Raylan’s as he told her, “You can’t really go back anyway, sweetheart. Don’t spend too much time wanting to, okay?”

She looked at him like he was crazy, so Raylan pulled out his wallet and said, “Boyd, maybe we should just order, huh? What do you want?”

Boyd glared at him like he should know--and actually he did, but he wasn’t going to order the boy’s damn ice cream for him--then said, “Lacey, I would very much like your finest chocolate dip ice cream cone. What will you have, Raylan?”

“A sundae,” Raylan said.

“What kind?” Lacey countered. “We got hot fudge, caramel, chocolate peanut, strawberry--”

“Hot fudge,” Raylan replied, laying his money down on the counter. “But just the fudge. I don’t want any whipped cream or a cherry or whatever.”

When the girl walked away, Raylan turned to Boyd, leaning his elbow and much of his weight on the window, and frowned at him. “What the hell are you doin’?” he asked.

Boyd raised his brows innocently, but he couldn’t hide that grin. “I’m just bein’ nice, baby,” he said.

“You’re being kind of weird,” Raylan told him, pulling some napkins out of the holder for them. “And the last thing we need is people talkin’ about how we’re harassing teenage girls at the goddamn Dairy Queen.”

Lacey came back with their ice cream just as Raylan finished speaking and she smiled at them, handing it over carefully. “I don’t feel harassed,” she told Raylan. “I know your boyfriend’s just buzzed.”

Raylan snorted before he could stop himself. “You’ve heard of us?”

Now she laughed. “Well, I would know what’s goin’ on here even if I hadn’t. I saw that queer show on HBO in the hotel when my daddy took us to the beach last summer,” she said like that meant she knew everything about it.

Boyd was grinning from ear to ear as he bit into the chocolate shell around his cone. Raylan watched him for a second then turned back to the girl. “Well, it was real nice to meet you, Lacey,” he said and she blushed again. “Don’t worry about the change.”

Boyd knocked shoulders with him and mouthed, “Quit it.”

As they turned away, stopping short as a few kids ran right in their path, and making their way back to the car, Raylan looked at him and said, “What?”

“I cannot believe how much of a flirt you are, Raylan,” Boyd scoffed.

“I was just being _nice_ ,” Raylan said defensively. “She’s a teenage girl, darlin’, she’d blush at the wall.”

“You touched your hat,” Boyd said, like that meant something specific.

Raylan rolled his eyes, pretty sure Boyd wasn’t actually mad, just messing with him. “I thought I might have to smooth things over, in case you said something crazy.”

“Of course, blame it all on me,” Boyd sighed, but he was still smiling into his cone.

They reached the car and both leaned up against the bumper, putting most of their weight on it, leaning back to enjoy the ice cream. Raylan swirled his fudge around with the spoon, letting the ice cream melt just a little bit and scooping it up all together. He glanced over at Boyd who was half way through his cone and looking off in the distance over at some of the families.

He nodded to a man and his wife, swinging a little girl, maybe eight or nine, between their arms. “That’s Walt McCready an’ his wife,” Boyd said quietly. “I used to do the powder on Walt’s crew sometimes, ‘fore he... went into business for himself. Last time we spoke, that little girl was just outta diapers.”

“What’s her name?” Raylan asked, not really certain as to why.

“Can’t recall,” Boyd murmured. “But damn, she’s all the man would talk about to me. That was back when I was young enough I had less than no interest in children. I tuned most of that shit right out, smiled at him a lot though, and nodded. It’s no good to be mean to a crewman.”

Raylan looked sidelong at him. “You got an interest in children now, Boyd?”

Boyd stuck his chin in the remainder of his ice cream and tore a napkin from Raylan’s hand to wipe it off. “Shit, baby, I don’t know. It’s not like--”

“I know,” Raylan interrupted before he could say anything else. “Forget I asked, okay?”

They’d been looking at McCready and his family for so long, it seemed the man had noticed and Raylan felt himself stiffen involuntarily, but Boyd put a--somewhat sticky--hand across his wrist as the man just gave them kind of a half wave across the parking lot. 

Boyd followed suit, raising his hand just a little higher. McCready said a couple words to his wife and she looked up, offering a hesitant smile. She was a thin woman, willowy and blonde. The little girl had her coloring, but maybe a bit more of McCready’s look about her face, and not just a little toughness around the eyes and mouth. Raylan liked the look of her.

“That’s a Harlan girl, if I ever saw one,” Raylan murmured and Boyd laughed softly.

“I wouldn’t be surprised at all,” he said.

They got a few other funny looks and some smiles from mothers and fathers, though no waves like the McCready’s. Raylan supposed it just might be because neither he nor Boyd knew anybody else there that night. Raylan caught a few of the kids eyeing his service weapon, not-quite completely concealed by his jacket, but none approached him like they sometimes did at schools and parks in Lexington. 

Though, the last time that had happened, he’d been with Rachel, picking up her young nephew from school on the way back from Corbin. That was the last time also that he’d asked anybody who knew about Boyd specifically not to mention him when they were close to Harlan. It was just under a year ago, but it felt like a damn century.

Boyd knocked their shoulders again, with a bit more force than before, but he made up for it by pressing close this time, not just brushing past Raylan, but keeping their bodies together. "Where'd you go?" he asked. His ice cream cone was gone and he was smiling softly, the food having done away with the last of his buzz.

"Nowhere," Raylan replied and smiled back. What was left of his sundae was a soup of fudge and sweet milk, but he scraped the last of it from the little plastic bowl and licked the spoon clean. "I think you're right, darlin'," he said. "It's gonna be fine."

"I know I am, Raylan," Boyd said and leaned over to kiss him on the cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU THANK YOU THANKYOU, to all three of my lovely betas on this fic, rillalicious, thornfield_girl, and engage_protocol. You ladies were amazing to chat with, plot out, and generally quee/flail over this damn novel I decided to write for some reason. <3
> 
> And thanks to all the readers for sticking with me for so long and for some truly lovely comments along the way. <333


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